Echoes of Shattered Glass
by Epilachna
Summary: Maglor answers the summons of the Valar, but is forgiveness possible for the remaining son of Fëanor? Can Elrond and his loved ones live with the choices they’ve made? Fourth Age with First Age flashbacks.
1. Maglor, Son of Feanor

**Please read:** This story is part of my series **Tales of the Elves**. Three stories precede this fic: _Peredhel_, _Faces in the Crowd_ and _No Rest for the Wicked_. These stories contain background on canon and OC characters that will appear in this tale. Two other short stories – _Looking Back_ and _35 Years of the Sun_ – are companion pieces. They examine events that occur at the same time as the events of this fic but are outside the focus of the narrative. I may add additional companion pieces if necessary. If you've read my novel, _Peredhel_, be aware that this story is not simply a continuation of that novel. It will, however, tie up loose ends from _Peredhel_. Knowledge of _The Silmarillion_ is helpful when reading this, but not necessary. I'm trying hard to make it newbie friendly. I will post comments and answer questions on my Forum.

* * *

**Echoes of Shattered Glass**

**Chapter 1 – Maglor, son of Fëanor**

_I would have slaughtered thousands for one kind word from my father – such was my weakness. _

_I wish I could believe my father was blind to this flaw in me. I wish I could know that he praised me for no other reason then that I made him proud. I wish I could trust that he would not have manipulated my faults to serve his own ends. _

_I wish in vain, for you see, my father knew me. _

_He knew an ounce of tenderness would bind me to his will. He knew a smile would see me follow and obey. He knew with his final breath that I would see his Oath fulfilled._

_My father knew me, you see, but I knew my father as well. _

_So which of us, in the end, is to blame?

* * *

_**Middle Earth  
Third Age 3021**

Maglor stood upon the sand, watching the White Ships disappear into the west. They were tiny specks in the distance, but he knew their lines and character would grow clearer as he came closer to Mithlond – that is – if he could find the will to take another step. The call of the sea had been powerful enough to carry Maglor this far, but no further. He stood on the shoreline, his feet anchored to the sand. He watched one ship after another depart, and despite the longing he felt for home, he could not summon the will to follow them.

Maglor knew there was still time for him to alter his course, time to forget the ships and the call of the sea and return the wilds of Middle-earth. It had seemed so simple when he first began – the journey north, one step at a time through lands no elf had ever seen. One step at a time, as the sea called him home. Now, standing mere miles from the city, a great wave of fear washed over him. He could not go back. He did not have the strength to face his people again. It would be easier to remain behind – to die alone.

A soft breeze blew from the west as Maglor turned his back on the sea. "Kana," a voice called to him on the wind.

Maglor froze mid-stride. He had not taken two steps away from the water when he heard the word spoken. He knew that voice, and even if time could have wiped away the memory, only one elf had ever called him by that name.

_Father._

Maglor trembled, despite the warmth of the midday sun. He should have known it would not be so easy to turn aside.

'_Would the Valar break their own law to see me punished? Have they truly sent my father to me, or have I finally lost my mind?'_ Maglor took a deep breath. He closed his eyes then opened them, willing himself to reply.

"I thought the spirits of the dead were forbidden to commune with the living," he whispered to the wind.

"They are," the wind replied.

It was his father, Maglor was certain now. The breeze bore the same condescending tone as Fëanor. "Then why have you come?" Maglor growled at the wind. He was not certain he wished to know the answer.

"I never did care for the Valar's rules," Fëanor replied.

Maglor's face hardened slightly at his father's mocking tone.

The spirit could sense his answer was not to his son's liking, for he added. "Namo permitted me this one communion, as his messenger."

"And what is his message?" Maglor asked.

"You must follow them."

Maglor's eyes returned to the ship fading into the horizon. "Must I?" his voice rose in challenge.

"It is the will of the Valar. Do you not hear their call?" the spirit pressed.

"I hear it. I have heard it for many ages," Maglor replied.

"And yet you remain." The spirit's voice grew softer; sadness seemed to linger on the air. "Would you dwell on this shore, alone, forever?" Fëanor asked.

"I would," Maglor answered – his heart defiant.

"Why?" the spirit asked.

_Why?_ Maglor could barely contain his anger at the question, and for a moment, he wished a flesh and blood ellon stood before him, upon whom he could vent his rage. "You _dare_ to ask me why, when it was you who saw us banished from Valinor."

"You did not have to follow me. You could have stayed in Aman," Fëanor replied.

A burst of joyless laughter issued from the depths of Maglor's soul. "You think any of your sons would have turned their back on you?" he answered. "You were _our world_."

"I thought you might remain with your mother," was the spirit's response.

"And you made certain I did not," Maglor growled.

"So I did," Fëanor conceded.

"You were always manipulating me," Maglor continued angrily. "You always thought me weak."

There was a moment's pause before the spirit answered; its voice firmer, yet gentler than before. "You are wrong, Kana. You are the strongest of my sons. You always were."

"Have you come to mock me as well?" Maglor spat at the wind.

"You followed me," Fëanor continued without acknowledging his son's words. "When I passed from this world, you followed Maedhros – and all the time, you knew we were wrong."

"And you call _that_ strength?" Maglor asked bitterly.

"You saw our paths would lead to our destruction, and still you remained by our side. Such powerful will can not be called weakness," Fëanor said.

Maglor had no answer. Perhaps his father would not call it weakness, but Maglor could not call it strength.

"It is time, Kana, time to lay the guilt aside, time to return to the place of your birth - and find peace," the spirit said.

"What peace can a son of Fëanor find in the West?" Maglor asked, the question directed more to himself than his father's ghost.

"The peace that is found on the other side of forgiveness," Fëanor replied. "I know your secret heart, my son. It is not for fear of punishment that you remain on this shore."

"I do not deserve forgiveness," Maglor said.

"But you wish for it," Fëanor replied. "The Valar will forgive you."

"And those felled by my sword?" Maglor asked. He did not think they would so easily forgive.

"Namo heals all wounds," Fëanor answered. "Were it not for the strength with which your fëa clung to this world, you would have discovered this truth long ago."

Maglor was skeptical. He did not think he would forgive his own murderer, had he fallen to another's sword. And even if it was possible, and the souls of the dead were truly healed, it was not the dead, alone, that worried him.

"The dead were not the only ones who suffered by my hands. What of the others, those who never saw the healing light of Mandos?" Maglor asked.

The spirit seemed to sigh, or perhaps it was only the shifting of the wind. "I can not promise you an easy path, Kana, but I know you are strong enough to walk it," Fëanor said in answer.

Maglor resisted the urge to argue. It would do no good to spit venom at his father now. Fëanor was dead. The Silmarils were gone. There was no need to argue anymore.

Perhaps Fëanor feared he had not reached Maglor with his words, for the wind grew anxious and wild. "Do you yet harbor love for me, my son, even in the smallest measure? Will you obey my command one last time?"

The elf-spirit who asked this question was not the ellon who once convinced thousands to flee Valinor and take up arms against Morgoth. He was not the greatest Noldo the Eldar had ever known. He was merely a father, asking his son if the bond between them was broken forever, and it was clear the spirit feared the answer.

Never in life or death had Maglor imagined he would see his father laid bare. Of course he loved Fëanor, he always had. _That _was his greatest weakness. Was the fact that he followed his father to Middle-earth, into darkness and down into the Void not proof enough of his love? What more terrible a fate could possibly befall him if he obeyed Fëanor now?

Maglor sighed in defeat. He never could refuse his father. He answered the spirit's question with a silent nod.

"Then sail, my son," the spirit commanded. "You are strong enough to face them."

* * *

**_A/N:_**_ Read the final chapter of __Peredhel__, __Faces in the Crowd__ and __No Rest for the Wicked__ if you want to find out what happened when Maglor sailed and what punishment he received from the Valar. _

_Kana(finwe): Maglor's father-name  
Maedhros: Maglor's older brother  
Fëa(r): soul(s)  
Namo: Vala of judgment; keeper of souls; rules over the Halls of Mandos; he is often called Mandos  
Silmarils: three jewels made by Feanor; their existence precipitated the events of The Silmarillion_


	2. The Beginning

**Chapter 2 – The Beginning  
**_  
All hurts are not magically healed in Valinor. This is a truth I learned when I was very young, when I read how Míriel died after giving birth to Fëanor, her son. Pain and anger, guilt and shame, such burdens do not simply fade away when one reaches the Undying Lands. It takes more than that, more than dwelling in the light of the Valar to find peace._

_Setting foot on this shore is only the beginning._

* * *

**Valinor**  
**Fourth Age****  
**  
The King's footsteps echoed loudly in the marble hall. The noise mattered little. No one ever entered this section of the palace. Even the servants, always so diligent in their labors, left the rooms in this hallway untouched. Millenia ago this had been the residence of Fëanor and his sons, but when the great Prince was banished from the city, the rooms were abandoned. They had remained empty, unused … until now.

Fingolfin arrived at his destination and knocked loudly on the gilded door. There was no answer, though he knew his nephew was inside. The King turned the handle without awaiting an invitation. He knew he was not likely to receive one.

Fingolfin stepped inside. "Maglor?" he called, casting his gaze about the great room. The doors to the balcony were open. He crossed the room with several swift strides and stepped out onto the terrace. He was greeted by a familiar sight – Maglor, stretched out upon a divan, reading a book, dressed in nothing more than a wrinkled tunic and leggings.

"An interesting choice," Fingolfin said of Maglor's attire. "I would have chosen something more formal."

"I am not coming," Maglor replied without lifting his gaze from the book on his lap.

Fingolfin sighed. "Maglor…"

"Uncle," he tried to head off the lecture before it began.

"It has been almost a year since you came to Tirion," Fingolfin continued. "You cannot hide in these rooms forever."

"I am well aware of that fact," Maglor snapped before he could leash his temper.

The second son of Fëanor was not known for fits of anger – that honor belonged to Caranthir. But ill-temper, a most unpleasant trait of Fëanor's, had in fact been passed on to each of his sons; Maglor was simply the most skilled at controlling it. His control was slipping. Ever since he had first set foot in Valinor, Maglor had found it difficult to speak to others without sharp words.  It was becoming a nasty habit – and his uncle – a regular target. At the moment Maglor was grateful no one else heard how he spoke to the King.

"Then why will you not you join us?" Fingolfin asked, ignoring Maglor's sharp tone. He was accustomed to his nephew's ill moods and had learned to overlook them.

Maglor sighed. There were a thousand reasons he could offer up in answer, but most would not satisfy Fingolfin. He knew at least one that would. "Tonight is for the Ringbearers," he said, "to honor the great deeds and sacrifices made by our people in Middle-earth. What sort of celebration would it be if I am there?"

Maglor knew well that his presence would only draw attention away from those who deserved it. Today belonged to Elrond and Artanis, to Olórin, and two tiny hobbits, two mortals, each one with more honor and dignity than Maglor would ever possess.

Fingolfin sighed in defeat. There was no arguing that Maglor's appearance at the celebration would overshadow them all. The King's eyes moved slowly across Maglor's drawn face to the darkening sky. The sun was setting, and it would not do for the Lord of the Noldor to be late today. Fingolfin turned and made his way back to the door.

"If you change your mind…," the King called over his shoulder, before leaving his nephew in peace.

* * *

On the other side of the palace complex, far from the lonely corridors where Maglor dwelled, others readied themselves for the feast. Celebrían, Lady of the House of Elrond, hosted the day's events for the female members of her household.

The Lady chatted with friends – new and old – as they prepared for the celebration. Her rooms bustled with activity. Celebrían enjoyed the young ones' mirth and excitement for the evening ahead, but the laughter she shared with her companions did not always reach her eyes. It was days like these, surrounded as she was by the quiet chatter of her ladies, that the absence of Arwen was felt most keenly. The dressing party was simply not the same without her daughter.

Celebrian gazed absently out of the eastern windows while her ladies dressed.

"My Lady." A quiet voice called Celebrían out of reverie.

Eruanna had been observing the older elleth quietly for some time. The Lady's eyes were misty, distant. She stared out the windows towards the sea. There was no question on whom Celebrían's thoughts dwelt.

The Lady looked up in surprise. _I must have been daydreaming again. _"Eruanna, forgive me. I was woolgathering. Did you say something?"

"I only wished to know if I can get you anything – tea, perhaps?" Eruanna knew that a cup of tea would do nothing to change the Lady's mood. It was merely a way of telling Celebrían she noticed her pain.

Celebrían forced a smile to her lips, if only for Eruanna's sake. Concern shone in the younger elleth's eyes, and the Lady did not wish to be the cause of the child's distress. Eruanna was very sweet – and observant. Celebrían knew the offer of tea was merely an excuse to distract her from her troubled thoughts.

"I do not think tea will be necessary," she replied. "I will be more myself once the festivities are underway. Elrond always finds some way to distract me."

Eruanna smiled at that. The Great Lord had been at Celebrían's heels like a love sick hound ever since they arrived in Valinor. Eruanna had never seen Lord Elrond so overjoyed. There were moments of sadness for the couple, of course, and the past had changed them both, but despite all that had occurred, their love for each other remained.

"Well, I believe tonight will be no different," Eruanna said. "After all, you will need to make certain all this praise does not go to his head. He may end up like Glorfindel."

A burst of laughter escaped the Lady at the unexpected jibe. There were, of course, a number of ways the joke could be taken, given Glorfindel's character. The ellon never was able to come to terms with his legendary status. There were times he fully accepted the mantle of hero and other times when he thought the idea a disgrace. "End up like Glorfindel how – by becoming bitter or proud?"

Eruanna thought for a moment. "The two seem to go hand in hand, don't they?" she mused. "I suppose either one would be a rather unpleasant result of tonight."

Celebrían's smile grew wider. "I will do my best to ensure neither happens."

"Just imagine your husband's reaction if someone writes a lay about him." Eruanna shook her head at the thought. "Glorfindel will never let him live it down."

"You know he'll sing it just to annoy Elrond." Celebrían laughed, and this time, her eyes sparkled with joy. "It would serve Elrond right. I can not tell you how many times he sang the last few versus of _The Fall of Gondolin_ when Glorfindel was in a mood. One time he and our sons hummed the tune at the dinner table. I thought Glorfindel was going to throw his plate at them!"

Eruanna laughed so hard at the image Celebrían's tale evoked, tears poured down her cheeks. She wished she could have been present for that meal.

The ellith's laughter was interrupted by another's raised voice.

"Eruanna! Cease your bantering and come here. I am almost finished," Marilla called from across the room.

"I think we had better see what Marilla has done to your mother," Celebrían said. She took Eruanna's arm in hers and led her over to the vanity where Marilla was hard at work plaiting Irimë's hair. By the time Eruanna and Celebrían reached them, the task was done.

"What do you think?" Irimë asked them while admiring Marilla's artistry in the mirror.

"I think something is missing." Celebrían cast her maid a mischievous grin.

Marilla was ready to protest, but bit her tongue when the Lady reached for a small ornate box on the dresser. She opened it, and withdrew a comb encrusted with sapphires. She placed the comb in Irimë's hair.

"There," Celebrían said, pleased with the addition she had made to Marilla's work.

"Ooooh, you look positively beautiful!" Marilla squealed in delight.

Irimë smiled at her reflection and the added touch of the comb. She turned to her daughter. "Well?" she asked.

The corners of Eruanna's mouth curled into a smile. "Must I squeal?" she asked.

"No," Irimë replied, "just be honest."

"You look lovely," Eruanna told her. "The blue matches your eyes." The sapphire accent really did make her mother look even more beautiful than usual.

"I still feel nervous," Irimë turned back to the mirror, a look of worry passing over her lovely face. She wrung her hands, a nervous gesture displayed often by Eruanna in her youth. It was one more reminder that Eruanna's mother – reborn – was now younger in years than her daughter.

"Did you not attend court in Mirkwood?" Eruanna asked, curious.

Irimë thought on the question, calling up memories of her past life. "Yes, I did," she said at last, "but this is different. There will be so many great Lords and Ladies in attendance. Ellyn and ellith I have never known."

"They are only elves, naneth," Eruanna assured her mother. She placed her hands on Irimë's shoulders and sought her mother's eyes in the mirror. Eruanna's brown met her mother's blue. The brown eyes smiled in reassurance.

"There is no reason to worry," said Eruanna. "Erestor is escorting you, and we will be there as well," she said of the other ladies in Elrond's house.

"Listen to your daughter, Irimë, she is very wise," Marilla twittered playfully, while arranging Celebrían's crown.

Celebrían offered her guest a reassuring smile as well, and when Marilla finished her arrangements, Celebrían took one last look at herself in the mirror. All was done. The ellith of the house were ready.

"Come along now, ladies," Celebrían clapped her hands to bring the others to attention. "We do not want to keep the ellyn waiting."

* * *

The King circled the great hall in search of Elrond. He wanted to be certain that the younger Lord was enjoying the celebration. Fingolfin noticed the flashes of discomfort in his grandson's eyes during the opening ceremonies – particularly when the crowd cheered him. He was not yet familiar enough with Elrond to read the ellon completely, but the King was familiar enough with the expression that graced his face during those uncomfortable moments. It was a characteristic gesture inherited by many in Fingolfin's line. It often appeared on his own face in moments of unease – as his sons so often informed him.

It was no simple task to pick one ellon out of the many, but after a time, the King sighted Elrond among the sea of familiar faces. Elrond's gaze was fixed on the dancers, or more precisely, on his wife and her uncle Finrod, who were among them. Fingolfin laid a hand on his young kinsman's shoulder, drawing the ellon's attention away from the dancing couple.

"Elrond, my son, are you enjoying the celebration?" he asked.

"My Lord," Elrond nodded in respect to his longfather and King. "It is a magnificent affair."

And it was. Elrond could not recall a gathering of elves more grand, or a company more beautiful to behold. It was overwhelming, even for the former Lord of Imladris.

The King could read that last thought in Elrond's expression clearly enough. "Too magnificent?" he asked, lowering his voice so that others would not overhear.

Elrond cringed inwardly at Fingolfin's question. It contained many layers of meaning and he did not quite know how to answer. Elrond's gaze swept the glittering hall and fell on two little men, each of them filling his plate with a fourth helping of the evening's dessert. A smile curled his lips at the sight of the hobbits chatting merrily with the other guests.

"Bilbo and Frodo deserve our praise," Elrond said. "I believe they are enjoying themselves."

Fingolfin followed his grandson's gaze to the dessert table. "The food, at least..." Fingolfin laughed. Indeed, the two mortal Ringbearers deserved much thanks, but they were not the only ones.

"And you, Elrond," he said, "do _you _not deserve our praise?"

Elrond's attention returned to the King. This time Fingolfin chose to abandon subtlety. An answer could not be avoided. He had a strong feeling the King already knew what his answer would be, else he would not have thought to ask.

"I am not certain what I have done to warrant it," Elrond admitted.

Fingolfin shook his head. "You sound like your father," he chided.

Elrond's brow rose in response to Fingolfin's unexpected declaration. He'd only met his father less than a year ago, and aside from their physical resemblance, this was the first time in Elrond's life that anyone had ever compared him to Eärendil.

Fingolfin answered Elrond's unspoken question. "Eärendil still rolls his eyes whenever someone claims that he, alone, saved our people from Morgoth," Fingolfin said.

Elrond smiled. Eärendil had done that very thing the first time Eruanna met his father. She spent near three hours questioning him about his travels and his first audience with the Valar. Eärendil gladly answered the young elleth's many questions – but Elrond had witnessed at least one rolling of the eyes during his father and Eruanna's animated discussion.

Fingolfin rested his hands on Elrond's shoulders, turning the younger Lord to face him. He emphasized his words with a gentle squeeze of his hands. "You are more than a worthy son of my House, Elrond. You have made your fathers proud."

These words were almost too much for Elrond to bear coming from the lips of the King. Elrond knew such praise was not given lightly by an ellon who once braved the Grinding Ice and challenged Morgoth the Accursed in combat to the death.

Fingolfin smiled kindly at his grandson and drew the younger ellon into a warm embrace. He would have said more to reassure Elrond, had a shadowed figure on the balcony not drawn his eye. He released Elrond and took a step back. His attention now fixed on the high gallery. It was nothing more than a small, unused corridor, but its marble pillars offered the perfect cover for a reluctant observer.

"What is wrong?" Elrond turned slightly, following the King's gaze upward.

"Maglor," Fingolfin answered in a low voice. "He watches from above."

Elrond could not find Maglor in the shadow of the pillars but his eyes caught a movement at the end of the arcade. An elleth stepped briefly into the light before vanishing behind a pillar. He was certain he recognized her face.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ 'Why is Fingolfin King?' you ask. I'll get there. Thank you also to my beta - WendWriter.  
_


	3. Exile

**Chapter 3 – Exile**

_One can be alone in a crowded room. All it takes is for others to look away._

* * *

**Valinor  
Fourth Age**

Curiosity was a curse. Maglor was certain of it. He tried to keep it at bay, but like his temper, Maglor's curiosity broke free, tearing him from the safety of his rooms, leading him to a perch high above the banquet hall. It was the perfect place to observe the festivities without opening himself to danger.

Maglor did not come upon this clever lookout by chance. He knew the spot well. It was once a favorite hiding place of Fëanor's sons, when they were yet too young to attend the festivals. A family secret, passed down from older brother to younger. Maglor was no longer a child, but the width of the pillars was still great enough to offer him some cover.

They would see him, of course – those cautious enough to take account of the shadows, but he trusted that those watchful few would ignore him, as the servants did. There was a celebration underway, after all. Why would anyone bother with a shadow when the hall was filled with such light?

_Such light!_

Maglor could not tear his eyes off the crowd. The sea of beautiful faces shone like stars and he sought first the familiar constellations. His cousins and their descendants mingled with the other guests. They looked just like he remembered them, laughing and dancing together in the hall as they had before the Darkening of Valinor. Their joy was both a comfort and a knife to Maglor's heart. He wished he could laugh and dance with them.

It was not possible.

There were other elves in the crowd below. Ghostly faces shining once more with life. Elves he hurt, elves he killed. Maglor's gaze passed from one face to another until it fell upon a trio of silver-haired elves – two ellyn and an elleth laughing merrily together. A wave of nausea hit Maglor at the sight of them. _There _were three faces burned forever into his memory. If only he could forget.

_If only…_

* * *

The spectacle of the Ringbearer's Feast was overwhelming. The great hall of the palace was all alight. A thousand or more glittering figures filled the room. There was music. There was dancing. It was truly a sight to behold, and Eruanna drank in every last detail. She planned to capture the memory of the Feast in ink when the night was over, though she doubted any rendering by her hand would do the night justice. She marveled at the beautiful people, studied every light and shadow.

One shadow in particular caught her eye.

Eruanna's gaze was drawn by a movement high above the room. For a moment she thought the candlelight played tricks on her, but then she saw it again – movement on the arcade. A figure sheltered in the shadow of a pillar, and there was only one ellon she could think of who might hide himself from the light of the joyous crowd.

_Maglor  
_  
It was no secret that the King had offered his nephew a home Tirion. What remained a mystery was the nature of the Valar's judgment, and the Lord's current whereabouts. He seemed to have vanished into the ether after his arrival – and most in the city thought it best.

Eruanna was not one of them.

She found her way to the far corner of the room and walked along the tapestry-adorned walls, searching for a camouflaged passage to the balcony. She found it, hidden from view by a silk drapery. She slipped behind the hanging and found a stairway. She climbed the winding steps, and upon reaching the second floor, peered out onto the walk. An ellon with black hair stood behind the third pillar, peering down upon the crowd. His attention was rapt on the people below, and he made no note of her as she stepped out into the light. Eruanna mirrored the ellon's posture, moving quickly behind a pillar so she would not be seen.

Eruanna watched Maglor silently for a time, though he continued to ignore her. Something below held his attention firm. She followed the direction of his gaze. It rested on three elves. One of the ellyn wore a crown. She did not recognize him or his companions, but by their silver hair Eruanna guessed they were members of the Royal Telerin line. Why Maglor watched _them _so intently was something of a mystery. There were others at the fete Eruanna would have thought more powerful draws for Maglor's gaze – Elrond, his grandparents, uncles and mother, for a start. In that moment, Eruanna had to concede the fact that she knew nothing at all about Maglor, save for the larger part he and his brothers played in the history of the First Age. The three elves he watched could be old friends – or enemies more important to _him_ than to history.

There was so much she did not know.

As if Maglor could sense the direction of Eruanna's thoughts, his eyes abandoned the Teleri. He turned his attention to her but said nothing – only watched her silently beneath the cover of darkness. Maglor recognized her as the elleth who offered him lembas on the ship.

"Good evening, my Lord," Eruanna said, once she realized Maglor was not likely to initiate the conversation.

"Is it?" Maglor asked. His voice was sharp as knives.

Eruanna did her best to brush off the ellon's cold reply. "You are not enjoying the party?" she asked.

Maglor ignored her question. "You should not be seen speaking with me," he said.

Eruanna eyes abandoned Maglor's face and flew to the guests below. "No one is watching," she replied.

"If you think so, you are a fool," Maglor sneered.

This time Maglor's words were too pointed for Eruanna to deflect. The pain of the blow flashed in her eyes. There were many insults she could abide, but being called a fool to her face was not one of them. She withdrew a step, instinct bidding her a quick retreat.

Maglor's expression softened slightly upon seeing the child flinch. She had given him no reason to lash out in anger, if anything, her earlier kindness to him was a debt he was bound by honor to repay. He tried to soften the blow with gentler words. "Their eyes never stray to the balcony because they know I am here," he explained. "Or do you think the half-elven have better eyesight than full-blood elves?"

Eruanna had to admit – she had not considered that tiny fact. She let her gaze pass over the crowd. Only then did she catch the fleeting glances others cast at the arcade. "So then, they see us," Eruanna replied, "it matters not to me."

Maglor's brow arched in disbelief, and then he turned away and went back to brooding on the crowd.

Eruanna wondered where his thoughts took him as he stared absently at the people below. She wanted to ask him. She had always been too curious for her own good. Curiosity was the reason she climbed the stair, why she stood in the shadows with a living ghost, instead of enjoying the celebration downstairs. There were so many things she wanted to know, but each time a question was about to burst forth, she faltered. Eruanna knew not if the ancient Lord would answer her questions, or if he would answer true. And if he did, would the truth be more terrible than the gossip passed in the street? Despite her many misgivings, the courage she carried with her eventually proved the victor over her fear. A question she had been eager to ask him since he joined them on the ship slipped past her lips.

"What made you decide to sail?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The quiet volume was deliberate – if he chose not to answer, she could pretend she had never asked.

Maglor heard her clearly, of course, but there was a long pause before he offered a response. "The Valar wished me to return," he said at last. "I obeyed."

Eruanna was not entirely content with Maglor's answer. After all, she knew the Valar had made the same request of him millennia ago. Why he should choose to obey _now_ was the true mystery, but she bit her tongue. It was a question best left for another time.

Eruanna pondered the Lord's carefully chosen words. He blamed the Valar; their call, their will. He'd named them without a hint of bitterness … or fear. One _might_ have thought an ellon called to account for his crimes before the great shapers of the world would tremble a bit when speaking of them. Maglor's voice never quavered.

"You were not afraid of the Valar's wrath," Eruanna said. It was not a question.

"No," Maglor agreed.

"But you are afraid of them," she said of the crowd below.

Maglor's eyes narrowed a bit as he considered her words. He studied her face, searching for something hidden within the depths of her eyes. "You see much, for one so young."

"So others have told me," Eruanna replied with a shrug.

Maglor seemed to accept this answer easily enough. He was not unaccustomed to the strangeness of the half-elven. "You knew who I was then, back on the ship?" he asked, a hint of curiosity coloring his voice.

"I suspected," Eruanna replied with a small smile. Her suspicions would never have been raised, of course, were it not for the odd behavior of her elders. "I have never seen the great Lords of the Eldar look so…shaken," she added as an afterthought.

Maglor smiled at the memory. "I was a surprise to them," he said.

"Very much so," she replied.

Eruanna watched a spark of humor kindle in Maglor's eyes, but it burned out quickly. She continued to ponder him in silence, wondering what it must be like to be reunited with kin after 7,000 years of exile.

_No. Not united._

His kin danced and laughed below in the lighted hall, while Maglor hid in the shadows. He was still alone, an exile in the greatest Elven city in Aman.

Maglor shifted uncomfortably under the weight of Eruanna's gaze. "It is not polite to stare," he muttered.

"I know," Eruanna replied.

"Then leave me in peace," Maglor growled. "I have had enough company for this evening." It might have been a demand, but the weariness in Maglor's voice made his words sound more like a plea.

Instead of retreat, Eruanna slipped one pillar closer to Maglor. She rested her cheek against the cold stone of the column, gazing thoughtfully upon his weary face. "Were you?" she asked.

"Was I what?" Maglor barked in frustration. His patience with the elleth's questions was beginning to wear thin. This was probably the longest conversation he'd had with another elf, save for Fingolfin, in several thousand years.

"At peace," she replied, "before I bothered you?"

Maglor bristled at the child's impertinent question and he offered her no reply. He was quite certain she knew the answer already. _  
_

Maglor's expression darkened and Eruanna knew her last question was the cause. It had not been her intent to anger him. Still, if there was one thing she'd learned in her short life, it was that no good came from avoiding the truth, no matter how unpleasant. It only made life more difficult. In a flash, the absurdity of the present situation hit Eruanna with full force. Maglor was hiding on the balcony when all below knew he was there! Why did he not simply step into the light? Then all of the Eldar would have to acknowledge him and one way or another end this absurd charade!

"Why not come down and join us?" Eruanna offered.

Maglor laughed coldly at her suggestion. "I am not wanted," he replied curtly.

Eruanna could well understand Maglor's desire to hide, _unwanted_, in some secret room of the palace. What she did not understand was why he would skulk in the shadows where others could see. Why cause himself pain by observing a joyous celebration from afar? Was _this_ the punishment handed down to him by the Valar, to remain forever at a distance? Or was this a torment of his _own_ making, a way of punishing himself for past crimes?

"Then why do you watch?" Eruanna asked.

Maglor shrugged. He wasn't really sure himself. "There are elves I wished to see tonight," is what he told her.

"Friends?" she asked, thinking of the silver-haired Teleri.

"No," Maglor answered with certainty.

Eruanna cast her gaze once again upon the sea of beautiful faces. Many of the greatest figures in history were in attendance this night. King Fingolfin laughed with his sons. Lord Elrond sat with his grandfather Dior. Lady Galadriel hung like a merry child on her brothers' arms.

"They live again, so many who met an untimely end," she whispered. "Are they the ones you hoped to see tonight?"

Maglor offered no answer. A long silence fell between them as pained eyes searched the faces of the crowd. It was Maglor's obvious anguish at the sight of the living dead that drew the next questions from Eruanna's lips.

"Why did you follow Fëanor? Why did you do all those terrible things?" she whispered.

Maglor's face hardened at the child's insolence and Eruanna cringed, preparing herself for a swift retreat should he explode in anger.

"If you want a history lesson," he ground out, "I am certain there are lore masters in the crowd."

Maglor's response was decidedly less venomous then she'd expected and the irony of his suggestion was actually quite amusing. "I am a lore master," was Eruanna's smug reply.

That was not quite the response Maglor had been expecting, but he recovered quickly from his surprise. "Then what more can I tell you?"

Eruanna thought a moment on the question. "I can recite the history of the Elder Days in my sleep," she said. "I do not require a timeline of events."

"Then what is it you want?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

_'What __do I__ want?' _ The Lord's question deserved an answer, but Eruanna was not certain she knew what it was. A memory of something Erestor once told her sprang to the forefront of her mind.

_'Only Ilúvatar knows for certain what dwelt in Fëanor's heart.'_

It might very well be impossible for Eruanna to know _Fëanor's_ heart – but perhaps there was a chance she could understand his son's.

"I want to know why _you_ followed him," she said.

_'Why?'_ Maglor's thoughts echoed the word. It was a deceptively simple question, and there was only one reason, one answer he could offer up.

"He was … my _father_."

* * *

_**A/N: **__No, you're not supposed to know who the three silver-haired elves are, not yet. _


	4. Blood and Steel

**Chapter 4 – Blood and Steel**

_I loved my father, I love him still, but I was not 'his' son._

_True, I had my father's graceful form, his commanding voice and skillful hands, but I cared little for objects of metal or stone. What I created lived in the hearts and souls of those who listened, but vanished quickly once the melody was done. No amount of esteem, no level of excellence in my craft was enough to please him. _

_I created nothing of worth. This is what my father told me._

_If it were not for mother's encouragement, and Maedhros' praise I might have abandoned my harp for the forge. Not that it would have mattered, I had not my brothers' skill. Maedhros and Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin, even young Amrod and Amras created works of beauty by fire; creations that stand even now as monuments to a forgotten time. I was the odd son, the one most readily forgotten. _

_But one day all of that changed. _

_I became a favored son … and not for some work of art or immortal creation formed by my hands. I took up the sword, and surpassed my brothers in its art. For this, I won my father's love._

_A regret I shall carry to eternity._

* * *

**Valinor  
Age of Trees**

Maedhros always knew where to find his brother. When Maglor was not in the library reading or playing strategy games with friends, he was practicing with his harp. Maedhros stopped first at his brother's bedroom, and finding Maglor's harp missing, headed for the east courtyard. Maedhros could hear the music before the two harpers came into sight. Maglor and Elemmírë often practiced together. The ebony Noldo and the golden Vanya were the two greatest bards in all of Aman and were fiercely competitive on the stage. Off-stage they were the closest of friends.

Maedhros stepped out into the open sun.

"What about this?" Elemmírë played several chords for Maglor.

"Yes, that works," Maglor echoed the tune on his own harp.

Maedhros cleared his throat to catch the ellyn's attention.

Maglor's eyes flew to the archway at the sound. "Maitimo," he said with a smile.

"Practicing something new?" Maedhros asked.

Maglor nodded. "For the bard's contest tomorrow evening."

Maedhros' gaze shifted to Elemmírë before returning to his brother. "Should you be revealing all your secrets to the competition?"

Elemmírë laughed.

Maglor shook his head. "I am not concerned," he replied. "It is my turn to win."

"Is it, indeed?" Elemmírë's brow rose in challenge.

Maedhros smiled, he was often amused by the friends' banter. "I hate to interrupt your practice Makalaurë," he said, his expression turning serious, "but father wishes an audience."

Maglor's eyes widened with surprise. "Has he finally left his workshop?" he asked. It had been many weeks since Fëanor locked himself inside. No one, not even their brother Curufin, was allowed entry while he worked.

"He has," Maedhros answered.

"What is he working on now?" Elemmírë asked. He could not imagine any creation surpassing Prince Fëanor's Silmarils. Elemmírë had only seen them a handful of times, but the sight of them would live forever in his memory.

"He will not say," Maedhros replied, "until _all_ of his sons are present."

Maglor sighed. He would have preferred to continue practicing for the following night's performance, rather than waste time marveling over his father's newest trinket – not that he had a choice. Maglor stood, handing his harp off to Elemmírë. "One more lecture on smithing I will have to suffer through," he said to his friend.

Elemmírë only smiled.

Maglor turned back to his brother. "Promise you will punch me if I start to nod off," he said.

"It will be my pleasure," Maedhros said with a grin.

Maglor was less than thrilled by his brother's eagerness and his expression soured.

Maedhros draped his arm comfortingly around Maglor's shoulder, leading his reluctant brother inside.

"Try and hit him in his strumming arm if you can, Maitimo," Elemmírë called after the brothers as they disappeared from sight. "I will take all the help I can get!"

* * *

"Finally, we can begin," Fëanor announced upon the arrival of his eldest sons.

Maedhros and Maglor nodded their greetings to their brothers and asked with silent expressions if they had learned anything new about why they had been called together. While his sons looked on, Fëanor disappeared into his workshop and emerged shortly thereafter rolling a cloth-draped 'something' out into the private courtyard at the center of his smithy. It was rectangular in shape and stood five feet or so in height.

"Father, what is that?" Amras, Fëanor's youngest asked. The same question formed on the tips of his brothers' tongues, but they were slower to question their father.

"Gifts," Fëanor announced, "one for each of my sons."

Excitement blossomed on the faces of each of the Fëanorions, save one. Maglor's expression registered only surprise. It was not often that he was gifted with something made by his father's hands. Fëanor was not the type of ellon to shower his children with gifts, but from time to time, he would present one of his sons with a tool made especially for him, something needed – or wanted – so that a work of art might come to life.

Maglor had no use for tools to shape metal or wood and he was not at all certain he would share his brothers' appreciation of this 'gift'.

Fëanor rested a hand upon the draped form. His expression darkened as he traced the star emblem woven into the cloth. Fëanor's thoughts were not on the fabric, but what lay beneath it.

"A shadow grows in my mind," he said to his sons. "I see darkness falling on Valinor. I see deceit and treachery everywhere. We must prepare."

"Prepare for what, father?" Maedhros asked, startled by his father's ominous words.

"To defend our house from our enemies," Fëanor answered. "And throw down those who would claim lordship over us."

"Who in Valinor would wish us harm?" Amrod, the second youngest, asked.

The older sons held their breath in anticipation of their father's answer. They were all well aware of the whispers spreading through the city of their uncles' treachery and the lies of the Valar.

Fëanor did not offer his son an answer; instead, he unveiled his creations, removing the cloth with a fluid sweep of his arm.

Seven pairs of eyes beheld seven swords of shining steel cradled in an elegantly carved wooden stand. Each blade bore an inscription to strengthen it and the elf that wielded it, each inscription contained the name of one of Fëanor's sons.

None of the ellyn had ever seen weapons such as these, for there was little need for them in Valinor. The blades were, in form, similar to a hunting knife, but these were clearly not meant for gutting deer.

Fëanor lifted the first of his treasures lovingly from its cradle and turned back to his sons.

"Step forward, Maedhros," he said.

Maedhros complied, and his father handed the blade to his eldest son with great ceremony. This was repeated six more times until each of Fëanor's sons held a sword crafted specifically for him.

"You will need these in the years to come," Fëanor said to them, his voice grave and dark with meaning. "Learn to use them well."

Maglor studied the sword his father gave him for a long while, testing its weight in his hand. He did not know what to think of his father's gift. Perhaps these very thoughts were visible on Maglor's face, for his father came to stand before him. Maglor's eyes lifted from the blade to meet his father's appraising gaze.

"I expect you to apply yourself, Kana," Fëanor said, but his tone told all present that he expected little from his second-born.

Maglor fought hard not to reveal the pain his father's words caused him. "Yes, father," he said. "I will do my best."

"You will do better than that." Fëanor spoke loud enough for all his sons to hear, before turning next to Celegorm.

An arm came around Maglor's shoulders once Fëanor departed and a familiar voice whispered in his ear. "We will show him, Maka," Maedhros assured him and he gave his brother a gentle squeeze.

* * *

The sons of Fëanor practiced daily in the courtyard of their father's secret forge. Fëanor wanted none outside his House to learn of his most recent creations. The brothers sparred with one another and those loyal to their father, growing ever greater in speed and skill. One son progressed faster than the others, possessing an instinct for the dance his brothers lacked.

Maglor stood at the center of the courtyard sparring with both Ambarussa at once. The youngest sons of Fëanor were no match for their elder and Maglor easily parried their overhasty and ill-conceived blows. Maglor corrected their stance and form as they practiced. The four remaining brothers stood aside, each one looking upon Maglor with a difference – Maedhros was proud of his younger brother's skill, Celegorm and Curufin amazed, and Caranthir, bitter at being bested by a musician.

Maglor disarmed Amras and Amrod in rapid succession knocking both ellyn to the ground. The Ambarussa lay sprawled on the grass looking rather flustered, but smiling. Maglor helped his little brothers back to their feet and kissed the tops of their heads as he had done since they were small.

A voice from the doorway interrupted their practice. "Good afternoon, my sons."

"Father," seven voices answered in unison.

"I believe you have had enough practice for today," Fëanor said. It was clearly a dismissal and the ellyn wasted no time following their father's command. They placed their swords back in their resting places on the stand.

"Kana, stay," Fëanor called as his son was nearly to the door. Maglor cast a worried look at Maedhros before turning back to his father. "Go on Maitimo," Fëanor said to his eldest. "I wish to speak with Kana alone."

"Someone's in trouble," Caranthir hissed at his brother as he passed. He was in a spiteful mood after having been beaten earlier by Maglor in less than ten moves.

Maglor soon found himself alone in the courtyard with Fëanor. "Father?" Maglor voice rose in question.

Fëanor regarded his son with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. He'd seen Maglor's match against his youngest sons. It was impressive enough, but nothing like he'd heard tell from the lips of his eldest.

"Maitimo tells me he can no longer defeat you," Fëanor stated simply. "How is it my gentle son has such skill with a sword?"

Maglor swallowed hard. He had an answer, but he feared Fëanor would laugh at him, or worse, not listen at all. Maglor searched for a way to explain that his father would understand, finding none, he settled for the explanation _he _understood. "It … sings to me," Maglor said.

"Sings?" Fëanor asked. His tone was not without a hint of mockery.

Maglor knew his father would not appreciate the allusion, so he hastened to explain. "When the blade cuts the air I can hear it hum, the sound changes with its speed, the direction of its fall. It has its own music."

For the first time in centuries Fëanor listened to every word Maglor uttered. He considered his son's explanation for some time before responding. "You can sense the pattern in the tune," he mused. Fëanor studied his son a moment longer before posing his next question. "Is this also how you win at games?"

"Games?" Maglor repeated. He was not quite following his father's train of thought. This was by far the strangest conversation he and Fëanor had ever had and something within Maglor urged caution. His father had never before taken an interest in his hobbies. Maglor was not even aware that Fëanor _knew_ he competed in the tournaments.

Maglor thought on his father's question, connecting his fondness for games with his skill with a sword. "The pattern on a gaming board is similar to the music of the sword," Maglor conceded. "There are only so many moves one can make, and each one leads to only so many others." He'd never really thought of his skill at composition, swordplay and strategy being connected in any way, but the importance of patterns to all three was obvious to him now.

"And you know the move your opponent will make before he makes it," Fëanor added.

"I know the moves he _can_ make, and how to counter them," Maglor corrected.

"A useful skill," Fëanor said, more to himself than his son.

Maglor merely shrugged.

Fëanor's gaze returned to his son. "Will you sing for me now, Kana?" he asked, lifting his and Maglor's swords from their place on the stand.

"If you wish," Maglor answered.

Maglor took his sword from his father's hand and waited for Fëanor to begin. Fëanor started slowly, testing first his son's form and balance. It did not take long for him to note Maglor's skill and precision, so he picked up the pace, wielding his blade with greater force. Maglor continued to match him in strength and speed, but Fëanor could tell his son held back. Every time Fëanor stepped up the pace Maglor met him, matching his father blow for blow – but that was all. Maglor never attacked, never pushed beyond what his father's force demanded. It was clear to Fëanor that his son was not trying to win. He would have to change that. Fëanor attacked his son with greater speed; carrying out a maneuver that would result in sure victory for Maglor if he deflected it, defeat if he failed.

Maglor anticipated Fëanor's next move, but could not parry the blade without injuring his father. He hesitated, and a moment's pause was all Fëanor required to disarm his son, slashing Maglor's forearm in the process.

Maglor hissed in pain when the blade cut him and dropped his sword. He clutched his arm, shock clear on his face.

Fëanor's eyes held no pity for Maglor's injury. "I thought the steel sang to you?" Fëanor scoffed.

"It does," Maglor bit back, the pain in his arm fueling his anger.

"Then why did you miss the block?" Fëanor asked sharply.

"I would have injured you," Maglor shouted, unsure how could his father could be blind to the obvious.

"I see," Fëanor's voice dripped with distain. "So instead of protecting yourself, you allowed a lesser opponent to defeat you."

Maglor, shaking his head, tried to explain. "You are my father…"

"No, Kana," Fëanor cut him off, his words sharp and unyielding, "there is no family or friend in a contest such as this. I should think that you, above all, would understand."

But it was clear to Fëanor his son did _not _understand. The Prince's thoughts turned inward, seeking a way to make Maglor see the logic behind his words. He found it in the most unlikely of places – his son's passion for music.

"Elemmírë is your friend, is he not?" Fëanor asked.

Maglor, confused by his father's abrupt shift in conversation, chose his answer carefully. "Of course he is."

"And yet you do not give way to him on the stage," Fëanor said.

Maglor hardly believed that besting a competitor with song and gutting him with a sword was an appropriate comparison. "It is different," Maglor replied.

"It is _the same_!" Fëanor exclaimed. "I am not your father when I lift a blade against you. I am your opponent and you must defeat me. Do you understand?"

Maglor understood his father's _reasoning_, but he was not certain he agreed. "Yes," Maglor answered with notable hesitation.

"Shall we find out?" Fëanor asked, and without warning, attacked his son with deadly force.

Fëanor's spiteful words fueled his son's anger and they hurt him more than the cut on his arm. The pain and frustration he felt was enough to bait him. This time Maglor did not wait for his father to set the pace. He wished to end their match quickly and escape Fëanor's sight. Maglor waited patiently for an opening and when it came he took it. Fëanor missed the parry and hissed as the tip of his son's blade made contact with his shoulder. Maglor disarmed Fëanor before he had time to recover.

It was all over in an instant.

Maglor could not believe he had actually drawn his father's blood. His first instinct was to beg forgiveness, but something in Fëanor's expression stopped him. His father looked at him in the most unsettling way, as though he gazed upon one of his Silmarils or some other treasure formed by his hands.

Maglor was not prepared for what happened next.

Fëanor smiled – the warmest, most sincere expression of affection he had ever offered his second son. He closed the distance between them and pulled Maglor into his arms, laughing with delight. Pulling back slightly, Fëanor pressed his forehead to Maglor's, looking deep into his son's eyes.

"You have made your father proud this day, Kana," Fëanor told him.

It was years since Fëanor showered Maglor with such simple words of praise, and they were wielded as pointedly as the sword in his hands. The words hit their mark, and with them, the walls Maglor built to protect himself from his father's indifference crumbled.

* * *

**_A/N:_ **_Check my Forum for commentary on this chapter.  
_

_Makalaurë: Maglor's mother-name in Quenya__  
Maitimo: Maedhros' mother-name in Quenya  
Ambarussa: the mother-name of both Amrod and Amras in Quenya_


	5. Shattered Glass

**Chapter 5 – Shattered Glass  
**  
_It is easier to repair a shattered glass than to heal a broken soul._

* * *

**Valinor  
Fourth Age**

Eruanna spent the days following the Ringbearer's feast alone with her notebook. Slowly, and with great care she transformed the slips of blank parchment into works of art – still images of the most glorious celebration the people of Valinor could recall. The first of Eruanna's drawings were, indeed, grand. She drew the great hall all alight, the glittering crowd, the Ringbearers – but there were other drawings that followed. Small moments of no import that together made the evening what it was – a dancer lacing up her shoe, a musician tuning his harp, a wine glass reflecting the candlelight…

Eruanna added the final touches to her last illustration, which also happened to be her first. She began working on the drawing of Maglor on the balcony the morning after the Feast, but it had taken many days to complete. She could only look at the sad, lonely image for so long before it overwhelmed her and she had to put the drawing aside. Maglor's weary face stared back at her from the page, and she could not help but wonder where he was hiding now.

"Good afternoon to you Eruanna." A voice drew Eruanna's attention from the page to the entry of her garden hideaway.

Eruanna immediately closed the cover on her drawings. Her eyes lifted from her book to Celebrían's face. "And to you, my La…" she said, standing, but the last word caught in her throat.

The Lady was not alone. Her mother and grandmother accompanied her, along with an ellon Eruanna recognized instantly from the night of the Feast. He was tall, with silver hair and bright, laughing eyes. Like his companions, he wore a circlet – a mark of elven royalty.

Galadriel followed the direction of Eruanna's gaze to the ellon at her side. "Eruanna, I do not believe you have met my uncle Ionwë."

The ellon smiled and acknowledged Eruanna with a slight nod. At the Feast, Eruanna's attention had been so focused on Maglor she had not spent much effort discovering the identities of the elves he was watching. Eruanna could see now the resemblance this ellon bore to Celebrían's grandmother and the other elves of Olwë's line.

"My Lord." Eruanna returned the greeting with all the respect his station required.

"This is Eruanna," Galadriel said to Ionwë, "Lord Erestor's daughter."

"A pleasure to meet you, Eruanna," the ellon replied. Something in his grandfatherly smile reminded Eruanna of Lord Celeborn and put Eruanna instantly at ease.

Ionwë took a step closer to Eruanna and gestured to the leather volume in her hands. "And what is it you are working on?" he asked.

"Drawings," Eruanna answered, "of the Ringbearer's Feast."

Eärwen's eyes widened with delight. "May we see them?" she asked.

With Eärwen's question, Eruanna immediately regretted her candor. The Lady knew Eruanna enjoyed sharing her work with others, but there were some images contained within these pages that were not intended for other's eyes.

"I …" Eruanna clutched the book to her chest, searching for a way to refuse that would not be thought rudeness. "They are not finished."

Ionwë smiled gently at the elleth, mistaking her hesitation for shyness. "Well then, perhaps, when you _have_ finished them?" he suggested.

Eruanna responded with a small nod.

Celebrían, in an effort to ease Eruanna's discomfort, moved the conversation to a new subject. "Will you be joining us in Alqualondë, Eruanna?"

"Alqualondë?" Eruanna asked in surprise.

"My father wishes us to visit for a time," Eärwen said, referring to herself and her daughters.

"We mentioned it to your mother earlier today," Galadriel added. "Celebrían thought the two of you might like to join us."

"I have not spoken with her since this morning," Eruanna replied. She was quite excited at the prospect of visiting the city. She had only spent a day or so there upon her arrival in Valinor and all of that time was spent celebrating with family. She had not even seen the inside of the palace!

"I do hope you will come," Eärwen, said, catching the light of excitement in Eruanna's eyes. "The sea is lovely at this time of year."

"And I am sure Marilla will appreciate your company," Celebrían added.

"I will have to speak with ada," Eruanna replied. "I think he was hoping to put me to work now all of the festivities are over." It was all her father could talk about – how much he was looking forward to life getting 'back to normal'.

Celebrían shook her head in fervent disbelief. "How that ellon finds such contentment in stacks of paper I will never understand."

Eruanna could not help but laugh. Galadriel smiled, understanding full well how Elrond's counselor could desire a return to normality. Eärwen and her brother looked upon the others in amusement.

Celebrían, with a conspiratorial grin, placed a hand on Eruanna's shoulder. "Well, I will help you persuade Erestor if you help me with Elrond."

"Agreed," Eruanna said with an equally mischievous smile. Her eyes moved then from the Lady's face to the setting sun. "I had better go," she said, "or I will be late for dinner." She picked up her drawing pencils and made to depart.

"Have a pleasant evening," Ionwë told her and the Ladies nodded their goodbyes.

"And you as well," Eruanna said, and with a small bow abandoned the garden glade for home.

* * *

Eruanna entered the common room of her family's palace suite, well aware that she was nearly an hour later than her mother expected. Irimë's attention flew to the door from where she stood setting the dinner table.

"There you are," Irimë said. "I thought we would be eating without you."

Eruanna laid down her drawings and rushed to her mother's side to help. She took the silver from her mother's hand and began to make up the place settings. "I am sorry. I met Celebrían and her mothers in the garden," she said merrily. "They have invited us to visit Alqualondë."

"Yes," Irimë replied. "I spoke with them earlier today."

Eruanna could see her own excitement reflected in her mother's eyes. "It might be nice to dwell by the sea for a while."

"I do love the sea," Irimë said with a sigh. "We could visit your grandparents as well. They live only a short distance from the city."

"I hope ada will think it alright," Eruanna said worriedly. "He has been waiting over a year to get back to his official duties."

At that moment, Eruanna heard the door between the common rooms and her father's private chambers open.

Irimë smiled. "Now is your chance to ask him," she told her daughter, moments before Erestor appeared.

Eruanna beset her father before he made it to the table. "Ada, Lady Celebrían is thinking of visiting Alqualondë. Do you think I can go with…?" Eruanna halted her speech at the sight of her father's dark expression. "Ada?" she said, concerned.

Irimë was also worried by Erestor's obvious distress. "Are you feeling well, Erestor?"

"What is wrong, ada?" Eruanna asked.

Erestor stared long at his daughter before the reason behind his ill mood found voice. "You spoke with Maglor at the festival," he said grimly. It was nothing less than an accusation.

Irimë's eyes widened with surprise at Erestor's declaration. She, too, turned her attention on Eruanna.

Eruanna did not know how Erestor found out about her talking with Maglor, but she should have known it would not remain secret for long. "Yes," she told him, not knowing what else to say.

"Why?" Erestor asked.

The question was harsh, demanding, and sparked an equal measure of anger in Eruanna. She did not hesitate when giving her answer. "Because no one else would."

"He is dangerous," Erestor snapped, advancing on Eruanna in his rage.

"He is broken," Eruanna replied, withdrawing a step as her father came toward her. She'd only seen him like this once, when their company was attacked by orcs. This time his anger was not directed at an enemy, but at her.

"That only makes his edges sharper!" Erestor cried.

The force of her father's raised voice made Eruanna flinch as if struck. The involuntary response was not missed by Erestor and the fearful response he evoked in his daughter startled him. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, but it was not enough to calm him.

"Have you learned _nothing_ from me all these years?" he asked, his voice heavy with disappointment. "He is a butcher."

Eruanna was not about to disagree, she knew that much of Maglor's past; it was the present that concerned her. She simply did not see a murderer in the Lord's sad, weary eyes. He was no longer the ellon who drew from her father such rage.

"You can not believe him a danger now," she said quietly.

Her answer was enough to ignite Erestor's anger once more. "You did not see him in Sirion covered in the blood of my kin!" he said.

Erestor's cry shook Eruanna, and she found she could not meet his eyes. Hr father was right. She had not been present during the slaughters at Sirion, or Doriath or Alqualondë. Those events were so long ago, in the past. Why could her father not leave them behind?

"The Valar have forgiven those who followed Fëanor," she whispered.

"_I _am not the Valar," Erestor growled in reply.

Eruanna shook her head in dismay. How could she make her father understand that the lonely creature hiding on the balcony was not the ellon he feared? "Ada..."

"Enough!" Erestor roared, smashing his fist down upon the table. The dinner plate beneath his hand shattered and the pain of it shocked him back to his senses. Erestor stared down at the broken fragments and his now bloodied hand. He lifted his eyes to find Eruanna in tears. He could not bear the shock and fear that shone from her eyes. Ashamed at his fit of rage, he turned from the table and fled.

Erestor's violent outburst shook Eruanna to her core. She wanted to follow him, beg forgiveness, but fear held her back. _Fear_ … and not just of her father's disapproval, or that he might not accept her apology … she feared Erestor himself. His normally serene features twisted into a mask of fury when he struck the table. It was the same rage that took him the day he slaughtered the orcs, only this time, it was her actions that drew it out.

Eruanna choked back a sob, looking to her mother for the first time since Erestor walked through the door. Irimë's eyes were full of concern.

"Naneth," Eruanna sobbed, "I did not mean to ..."

Irimë came at once to her daughter's side and took the child in her arms. Even with the short time she had spent with Erestor and her daughter, Irimë knew the scene she had just witnessed was not a common event. She did not doubt the love the pair had for one another, but what Irimë witnessed was more than a simple disagreement and it would take more than time to make it right.

Irimë stroked Eruanna's hair until her breathing steadied, then sat her down. "I will speak with him," she told her daughter and went in search of Erestor, following the trail of blood he left behind on the floor.


	6. Sides of the Argument

**Chapter 6 – Sides of the Argument**

_There are two sides to every argument and I have learned that both can be right._

* * *

**Valinor  
Fourth Age**

Eruanna began clearing away the pieces of the broken plate, careful not to cut her own hand on the sharp edges when a loud knock on the door drew her attention. She had no idea who it could be as they were not expecting company this evening.

"Come in," Eruanna called, loud enough for any elf to hear. She would have opened the door, as was proper, but her hands were occupied and propriety was the furthest thing from her mind.

A familiar face greeted Eruanna with a smile. "Good evening, Eruanna. Care to feed another hungry el…," Glorfindel's words faltered when he took in the expression on Eruanna's face. He drew closer to the table and saw pieces of broken tableware in her hand. In perfect Glorfindel fashion, he attempted to lighten the elleth's mood with a bit of laughter.

"Practicing your juggling skills, I see," he said with a smile.

The jest had no effect and Eruanna's expression remained unchanged. "Ada broke it," she explained as she placed another shard into the dustbin.

"What happened?" Glorfindel asked. It was not like Erestor to be so clumsy, and a broken plate was certainly no cause for tears.

Eruanna was not at all certain she should tell Glorfindel about her argument with her father. She might very well end up picking up more broken dinnerware. Then again, if anyone would be able to offer her advice, and perhaps a small sliver of understanding, it was Glorfindel.

"We argued," she said at last, "about Maglor. He shouted at me." Fresh tears poured down her cheeks at her admission.

Glorfindel sighed. He had seen this coming – ever since that incident on the ship. It had been all Glorfindel could do to keep Erestor's anger contained while he and Maglor shared the same space. And after so many years as her teacher and friend, Glorfindel had a feeling that Eruanna would seek Maglor out again, just as she had done on the ship.

Glorfindel's thoughts dwelt the tale Erestor related to him of the kinslaying at Sirion. The great warrior shuddered at the thought. "His anger is not unjustified," he told her.

Eruanna nodded. "I know, I just…," she looked to Glorfindel for some small sign of understanding. "We have never quarreled like that before."

"A historic event," Glorfindel said with a gentle smile.

Eruanna shook her head and more tears fell from her now red and swollen eyes. "I never meant to hurt him," she cried.

Glorfindel caressed the top of Eruanna's head as she cried. "He knows, child," Glorfindel reassured her, "he knows."

When the fresh flood of tears subsided, Glorfindel offered her a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away her tears and took the seat to her right. "It is good to know that life in Middle Earth did not rob you of all of your innocence."

Eruanna found the ellon's statement to be a curious one. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"You have never seen the horrors others have witnessed," he replied, "never held a friend in your arms as he lay dying, never trod upon the bodies of elves and men as their blood stained the ground red."

Glorfindel studied Eruanna for a moment, waiting to see if his words sunk in before continuing. "Erestor has seen these things, Eruanna. He has spent millennia trying to forget, but the memories haunt him still. And now, each day, he wakes with the knowledge that one responsible for his torment lives and breathes beneath the same roof. For him to discover that you, whom he loves most in the world, would seek out the presence of his enemy… it is too much."

Eruanna looked away, ashamed now more than ever before. "Should I apologize for speaking to Maglor?" Eruanna asked quietly.

"That depends," Glorfindel replied.

"On what?" Eruanna asked.

"Are you sorry you spoke with him?" Glorfindel asked meaningfully.

"I …" Eruanna paused, not knowing how best to answer Glorfindel's question. She thought on her answer for some time before offering up a response. "I _am_ sorry I hurt ada by speaking with Maglor, but I …," Eruanna took a deep breath in preparation for the words she was about to utter aloud. "I am not sorry I spoke with him."

Glorfindel nodded. "That is an honest answer," he said, looking thoughtfully upon Eruanna as he said so. "You should never apologize for actions you do not regret."

The ellon continued to study his young companion silently for some time. The ways of the half-elven had often been a mystery to him. He wished to ask her a question, but wondered if Eruanna, herself, knew the answer. "Will you tell me one thing?" he asked, and waited for Eruanna to nod her assent before continuing. "Why is it you seek out the company of an ellon whom every other elf in the city goes to great lengths to avoid?"

Eruanna was somewhat thrown by the question. Her father, too, had asked her 'why', but his questioning had been so pointed and angry that it had not elicited a sincere response. It was true she did pity the ellon whom all others ignored and had spoken with him partly to offer him company – but that had not been the whole reason. Eruanna tried to find a way to explain her reasons that Glorfindel might understand.

"When I was very young," Eruanna began, "perhaps no more than ten years of age, I found a bird upon the forest floor. It was injured and…it died." She paused there, recalling the sight of the poor creature quite clearly in her mind. "I knew what death was, for my grandfather explained it to me, but I did not know what would happen to the bird after death. So I sat there for two days watching it decay. I watched the maggots devour it from the inside out and the tiny creatures of the forest drag away its bones."

Eruanna locked eyes with Glorfindel as she finished her tale. "It was the most terrible thing I had ever witnessed," she told him, "but I could not look away. I had to know these things my grandfather never told me."

Eruanna saw understanding in Glorfindel's eyes.

"I have read every book in Elrond's library," she continued, "and not one has told me _why _Fëanor and his sons chose such a dark and bloody path, not one! They speak only of jewels and Oaths and not a single word of what dwelt in their hearts when they committed those crimes."

"Do you believe Maglor will tell you?" Glorfindel asked, curious.

Eruanna shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not," she replied.

The pair sat in silence for a moment, when Eruanna voiced a question that had troubled her for some time. "There are elves in this city that stood with the Fëanorions even after Sirion. Why do they not draw ada's anger as Maglor does?"

Glorfindel's brow furrowed in consideration of her question. "It may be easier for him to choose one ellon as a target for his rage, rather than divide it amongst many," he suggested. "Erestor needs someone to blame for his suffering, and Maglor is the only one of his brethren left alive."

Eruanna saw the sense in Glorfindel's words, but his mention of suffering drew from Eruanna another observation. "He suffers as well – Maglor, that is," she told her companion.

"I believe you," he replied.

Glorfindel did not know what else to do to help Eruanna and his friend through this difficult time. Always the teacher, he could not help but leave Eruanna with a lesson in caution. "I, too, have a story to share," Glorfindel said, "if you will indulge me?"

Eruanna merely nodded in reply.

"When I was a boy I found a dead wolf in the hills above Gondolin," Glorfindel began. "Its cub lay curled up beside it, seeking warmth. It was a very attractive animal and looked to be very young. I pitied the creature, and wished to care for it, as the youngster would surely have died if left on its own. I tried to pick it up, but did not see that its hind leg was injured. The cub – cornered and in pain – lashed out at me, biting at my arms and clawing the side of my face to escape."

Glorfindel fixed Eruanna with a pointed gaze before finishing. "I know you believe Maglor is not a danger, but you can not know that for sure."

Eruanna nodded at the wisdom of her teacher's words. She looked to him with curious eyes. "Do you believe him to be a danger?" she asked, wondering what the great Balrog Slayer might say.

Glorfindel did not answer right away. He made it a point never to lie to a student or a friend, but he knew with certainty that Erestor would not appreciate the answer he was about to give. "I think," he replied, "that the Valar would not have permitted his return if they thought him a threat to others."

Eruanna knew the answer before he spoke it. She had seen it in the ellon's eyes. Of course, it mattered little what Glorfindel thought of Maglor, as it was not likely to change Erestor's mind. She sighed. "How do I make this right, Glorfindel?" she asked him. "I have always listened to ada's wisdom in the past, but this time I fear his reason is clouded by hate."

"You are not wrong," he replied sadly. "And as for making it right … I have no advice to offer you. I can not say that Erestor will understand your desire to know Maglor, but I can tell you that if my friend is the ellon I believe him to be, he will not forsake you for that choice."

It was not the total reassurance Eruanna had hoped for, but the more she thought on Glorfindel's words the more sense they made. She had seen Elrond and her father argue on points of polity more times than she cared to remember, but the argument did not end their friendship. She could only hope that Glorfindel was right, and that her choice would not break their bonds of affection.

* * *

Irimë found Erestor on his private balcony where he stood staring out upon the city, his expression pained, his eyes swimming with unshed tears. She stood hesitantly on the threshold. This was uncharted territory for them both. For many months now Erestor and Irimë had danced cautiously around each other, each one fearful of taking a wrong step. They now shared a daughter, but Irimë was acutely aware that the ellon before her had the greater claim on Eruanna's heart. Erestor would forever remain Eruanna's 'true' parent, no matter how strong the bond between Irimë and her daughter grew. After all, Irimë might be her mother by blood, but no amount of time could rebuild what Irimë's death had lost her – Eruanna's childhood. Those years were filled with Erestor's love and guidance. What was more, her daughter had _chosen _Erestor as her father, and that fact, if nothing else, gave him greater power.

Irimë had learned much about Erestor and her daughter in the last year, and while she still had much left to discover, she knew with certainty that the scene she witnessed was not a common event. Eruanna had done more than speak to Maglor – she had hurt Erestor in such a profound and personal way, that Irimë could only scarcely understand it. All she had to go on were Erestor's words … _butcher_ … _Sirion_ … _blood of my kin_…. They were enough to give Irimë a glimpse of Erestor's past, a past she was not privy to, a past that was tearing him – and their daughter – apart.

Irimë had no speech prepared when she took that first step onto the balcony. She merely moved quietly to Erestor's side and reached out to take his hand. From a hidden pocket in her skirts she drew a handkerchief and wrapped the cut tightly to stem the flow of blood. When the wound was bound, she looked him in the eye.

"Are you always so harsh with her?" Irimë asked softly.

She might just as well have struck him, for her words made Erestor flinch. He shut his eyes tightly against them. It was a wordless answer, but spoke volumes of the pain in his heart.

Irimë sighed, and taking hold of Erestor's arm, rested her head against his shoulder in comfort. She, too, gazed upon the lamplit city, but her thoughts remained with Erestor and her daughter. It seemed strange to her that she should feel sympathetic to both sides of their argument. She understood Eruanna's desire to seek out the unknown, for she had the same desire when she strayed from the safety of Mirkwood's border. At the same time, she understood Erestor's anger at Eruanna for putting herself in danger, for spending time in the company of an ellon who had caused so much pain and death.

Irimë gave word to these many thoughts, hoping they might offer a small amount of comfort and understanding. "Eruanna has experienced much sorrow in her life … but of other things…," Irimë paused, trying to decide how much to share of her own pain with this ellon she barely knew. "There are horrors an elf may witness, may _suffer, _that mere words can not convey, and the innocent will never understand."

Erestor knew Irimë spoke from experience. Many times in the preceding months he had found himself wanting to ask Irimë about her death. He found he could not. Even now, dancing on the edge of the topic, he could not find the courage to ask.

"I know," he whispered, "and I am thankful for it."

Irimë understood, and said as much when next she spoke. "I understand that kind of pain, Erestor, the source of your anger, but Eruanna does not. She will never understand, not until you explain it to her, where it comes from and why you can not simply cast it aside."

"I can not," Erestor answered firmly.

"Even if it will help her understand?" Irimë asked. When she received only silence in answer she decided not to press. There was something in the ellon's expression that told her to try another route. "I do not know why she sought out Maglor, but I know whatever her reason, it was not to hurt you."

Erestor sighed. "I know that as well," he said, but something in his expression told her he was not done. There was something that troubled him, something he found difficult to put into words. "What I do not understand is why she would speak to him at all."

Erestor's frustration was clear in his voice and expression and Irimë could see in them the source of much of his anger. He did not understand in part because of his own experiences, in part, because he had not been listening to what Eruanna had said. His anger quieted for the time being, Irimë endeavored to remind him of Eruanna's words.

"She has already told you," Irimë replied. "She sees not a murderer when she looks at Maglor, but a broken, troubled soul. It was out of kindness and curiosity that she spoke with him. She did not see the harm in it."

Irimë waited for her words to sink in, before she added, "You have raised a sweet and compassionate elleth, Erestor. You should be proud."

Erestor shook his head in dismay. "Perhaps too compassionate," he grumbled.

"I know you do not believe that," Irimë chided, tugging gently on his sleeve as she did.

"I am not so sure," Erestor said with a sigh. He was so tired, wearied by the weight of the past and his own uncertainty of what lay ahead.

Irimë understood his concern, for she too worried for their daughter, but unlike Erestor, Irimë saw Eruanna as an elleth full grown. Irimë might not know Eruanna as well as Erestor did, but Irimë was certain of one thing – Eruanna was no fool. It was thanks to Erestor that she could trust in that fact.

Irimë lifted a hand to Erestor's cheek and brushed away a stray tear she saw there. The contact drew the ellon's gaze to her face. "You know, I thank the Valar every day Eruanna had you to love and guide her," she told him. It was a too long withheld confession. "You have taught her well. Can you not trust her, now, to choose her own path, though it may differ from your own?"

Erestor's eyes darkened for a moment as he studied Irimë's face. In the moonlight she looked so like Eruanna, it was as if his daughter had made the request. "Do you think she is right?" he asked her.

Irimë took a deep breath before replying. The truth was she did not know the answer, but she responded to Erestor's query as honestly as she could. "I am not the same elleth who died in Mirkwood but a few centuries ago. I would wager that Maglor, who roamed the world alone for millennia, has changed as well."

Erestor choked on her words. "So you are saying I should forgive him?" he asked harshly.

"No," was her firm reply, "what I am saying is that Maglor may indeed be the changed ellon Eruanna thinks he is, but that, alone, will not absolve him of his crimes. This, at least, is something Eruanna may be made to understand."

"You are making too much sense," Erestor grumbled. He did not want to hear reason, but Irime's logic was difficult to ignore.

"It is a curse," she told him with a smile, and she watched a corner of his mouth twitch upward in response.

Searching for some way to help Erestor deal with the reality of the situation with Maglor and Eruanna, a thought occurred to Irimë which she shared aloud. "We have been invited to Alqualondë by Celebrían and her mothers, Eruanna and I."

"Alqualondë?" he asked. There was a hint of fear in his voice, as if he might lose Eruanna forever should she go.

"It will only be for a season or two, of course," Irimë added quickly. She was not deaf to the sound of upset in his voice. "She was planning on asking you for leave to go and I thought perhaps some time away from Tirion would do her good."

"Perhaps," Erestor answered hesitantly, not at all certain it would be a wise choice.

"You should speak with her of your argument first, of course," Irimë added, "lest she think you send her away. It will give you time as well, to settle into Tirion."

Erestor was smart enough to divine what Irimë left unspoken – a visit to Alqualondë would also keep Eruanna away from Maglor for the time being, until Erestor decided what to do about him. "I will speak with her about visiting with Celebrían's kin," he said at last.

"And about Maglor?" Irimë asked.

Erestor looked away, unable to meet the elleth's eyes when he answered, "We will see."

* * *

_**A/N:**__ By anonymous request I have posted a list of characters that will be mentioned or appear in this story on the Echoes thread of my Forum and a brief note about each one. I'll add more as they appear. I will not be posting such information at the end of chapters unless I deem it necessary. I hope this installment answered many of the questions raised by the previous chapter. You guys are just thinking way too far ahead! This is a long story so sit tight! If you have any other questions post them in the Echoes thread and I'll answer so long as it doesn't give away any surprises.  
_


	7. By Any Other Name

**Chapter 7 - By Any Other Name  
**

_You can learn a lot about an elf by the names he has been given, and the name he chooses to be known by. Take Galadriel, for example. She is Artanis, the 'noble woman' to some, and Nerwen the 'man-maiden' to others, but she answers to neither. Galadriel she is, and has been for nearly three ages. So how did it come to pass that this great Princess of the Noldor forsook her father and mother-names for a Sindarin epessë? _

_I will tell you._

_I have it on good authority that this name was given to her by her husband Celeborn when he first set eyes on her in Doriath. In romantic fashion, he compared her golden hair to a radiant garland that glistened as it framed her fair face, and so he called her Galadriel. There are, of course, many tales of greater import told of the life of Finarfin's mighty daughter, but none more informative than this – that she took Celeborn's hand and the name he gave her, and together they have remained ever since._

_And so I wonder… _

_Would Artanis, Princess of the Noldor have married a mere Sinda Lord? Would Nerwen, tall and proud, have abandoned her kin and followed Celeborn across the mountains to distant lands? It is possible. Or perhaps the name 'Galadriel' marked a greater change in the great Lady, and she ceased to be Artanis and Nerwen when she took her new name. Maybe the name itself was her way of leaving the past behind, and granted her the freedom to become the great Lady of Light whom the peoples of Middle Earth feared and adored._

* * *

**Valinor  
Fourth Age**

Eruanna had not been able to sleep. She lay on her bed all night, still dressed in the previous day's clothes, thinking and worrying. Her mother had come by earlier to say she had spoken to Erestor. She would not tell her daughter what was said; only that Erestor needed time and would surely come to see her shortly. Eruanna dreaded their next encounter, but wished it would come with speed all the same. She needed to know that her actions had not turned her father's heart away from her forever.

A knock on the door told her the time had come. "Come in," Eruanna called from where she lay curled up in bed. Erestor opened the door. He looked even worse then she felt. "Ada," Eruanna exclaimed, shifting herself to a seated position to face him.

Erestor moved slowly to Eruanna's bedside and sat himself on the edge. He could barely lift his eyes to look at her. After a somewhat uncomfortable silence, Erestor began: "I did not mean…," he said, but stopped, sighing. He needed deeper words than those to explain all he felt.

He tried a second time. "My anger was great after speaking with Elrond," he said. "I should have mastered myself before I confronted you about my concerns," he lifted his eyes to his daughter's. "I did not mean to frighten you, or your mother." It was a lame excuse, but the best he could do to explain his outburst.

Eruanna studied her father's face. He was still terribly upset, but his rage from the previous night was spent. All that remained was an inner turmoil, and a pain Eruanna could scarcely comprehend.

There was, however, one thing beyond hatred that linked Maglor and her father together in Eruanna's mind. It was the look both ellyn had given her when they called her judgment into question. "Maglor called me a fool for speaking with him," she said at last. "Do you agree with him?"

"I would like to believe we would never agree on anything," Erestor grumbled.

Eruanna could not help but smile at her father's remark. "But do you think I am a fool?" she pressed, curious to know Erestor's thoughts.

"I do not know what I think in this matter, I know only what I feel."

"Tell me," Eruanna said softly, her eyes pleading her case.

"I would never call you a fool, Eruanna, for I know you are not. I do think it was – naïve of you – to approach one so dangerous on your own and I can not comprehend why you would want to, why you do not believe me when I say …."

Eruanna reached out her hand and laid it on Erestor's, giving it a squeeze. "I do believe you, ada," she said. "I have not forgotten the lessons you taught me, or the stories I heard in the Hall of Fire."

"Then why speak with him?" Erestor asked in earnest.

Eruanna wanted to give her father an answer he would understand, but she was not sure that one existed. "Because _believing_ is not enough … I need to _understand_." She looked into her father's eyes, seeking _his_ understanding, and his forgiveness. "I am sorry I hurt you, ada," she said, gripping his hand tight. She wanted to say more, but could not find the words.

There was no need. Erestor spoke for her.

"But you are not sorry about Maglor," he said. There was no need to ask the question, he could see it in her eyes.

A wave of fear passed through Eruanna with those words. This was the moment she had feared from the moment Erestor walked through the door. "It would be a lie if I said I am sorry for that," she said, then asked: "Are you angry with me?"

Erestor searched his heart for the answer to Eruanna's question. It came to him clearly, a simple truth that fought its way out from beneath confused thoughts and emotions. He _was_ angry. He was _angry_ that Maglor lived and breathed, _angry_ that the Valar welcomed him back with open arms, and above all, _angry_ at his own weakness – at the fear and hatred that lived inside him still, refusing to fade away. He could not banish this fury, he had tried. But in the past, at least, the rage was kept at bay by the knowledge that vengeance was impossible, a pointless fantasy that would never come to pass. Now, the source of his nightmares was within his grasp, his dreams of revenge could be realized – or so it would seem. In reality Erestor remained as powerless now as ever he was, bound by the laws of the Valar and the Eldar to live in the same halls as that _butcher_ and do nothing.

Yes, he was angry, very angry, but at Eruanna?

He could not say her actions did not hurt him, but as the hours passed and his mind cleared Erestor found that he was angrier with himself than with Eruanna. He loved her so much – that was why her actions caused him so much pain. When Elrond told him what he had witnessed, Erestor did not stop to consider the truths Irimë stated so simply.

He could not expect Eruanna to understand the depths of his pain, nor did he want her to.

Erestor knew the question Eruanna truly wished to ask. He had seen the same hope and fear in her eyes long ago, when she first asked him if he loved her. "You have been my spirit child, Eruanna, Ilúvatar's gift to me, truly. I may have been angered by your actions but I will always love you."

Erestor watched Eruanna's tension lift with his words. He took her hand in his. "You are not a child, Eruanna, nor are you bound by my will. I can not order you to stay away from Maglor, though I might wish I could. I only ask that you respect my feelings in this matter. There are things," he stopped, not wanting to go down that road just now. "He might well be a changed ellon, Eruanna, but I can tell you from experience that the past is never gone, no matter how many ages pass. He has hurt the innocent before…," he trailed off.

"And you do not want anything bad to happen to me," Eruanna finished for him. She understood her father's fear was fueled by his love for her.

"Yes," Erestor said.

Without warning Eruanna flung her arms around Erestor's torso, hugging him tightly. "I love you, ada."

Erestor returned the gesture, holding her tight. He tried not to think of Maglor when he held her. He knew the argument was not truly laid to rest and the Fëanorion would certainly come between them again. He only hoped he could delay the inevitable long enough to regain control over his own pained emotions.

There was one blessing in all this that offered him the time he needed to meditate on these unexpected events that began with the return of Maglor.

"So, your mother tells me you would like to visit Alqualondë?"

* * *

A mournful song drifted on the breeze and those who heard it lifted their eyes to a small balcony. A lone figure could be seen looking out upon the garden from above. One brave soul followed the sound to its source. Into the palace he went and up the private stair and down the hall to the silent rooms where once dwelled the House of Fëanor. It was a path he had trod so many times before, and despite the passing of ages, he remembered every step. He found himself at the door and was about to knock when he thought better of it. Maglor was not likely to answer. He had been hiding from the people of Aman for more than a year. He would have to gather his courage and take the first step. He opened the door…

Maglor's voice greeted him, drifting in from the balcony. The sound was both familiar and strange all at once. It was Maglor's voice, yes, but it contained a sadness never heard under the Trees. Elemmírë followed the melody to its maker – an ellon with wild, unkempt hair and wrinkled clothes. He appeared less like a Prince and more like a field hand after a hard day's labor.

"You still have the most beautiful voice in Arda," Elemmírë said with a smile.

Maglor did not look to the doorway. There was no need. He had heard the slow footsteps approaching and knew the sound of that voice well, despite the passage of time. "What do you want?"

"It is good to see you, too," Elemmírë replied.

Maglor's gaze shifted briefly to his unexpected guest. "Is it?" he asked. There was distrust in his question, suspicion.

"Of course," Elemmírë answered carefully. "It has been lonely in Aman without you."

Maglor laughed – a short, mirthless bark, and returned his attention to the garden below. "I doubt you lacked for an audience in my absence," he replied coldly.

Elemmírë's spirit deflated somewhat. It was not the response he had hoped for. "An audience – no – but true friends are not so easy to come by, Makalaurë, nor are worthy rivals. There was no one to challenge me when you were gone."

"Maglor."

The word was spoken bitterly and Elemmírë did not understand. "Excuse me?" he asked.

"I do not use my Quenyan name anymore," Maglor said.

"Of course," Elemmírë replied. "My apologies." A long, uncomfortable silence fell between them. Elemmírë searched for something to say. His eyes fell on a seat carved into the low wall. "May I sit?" he asked, gesturing to the place near to Maglor. It felt strange to ask this ellon for permission. There had been a time when he would have plopped himself on the other's bed without a second thought.

Elemmírë received no answer, only more silence. He sat anyway.

"Why have you come?" Maglor asked once more. He sounded beyond tired – a level of weariness Elemmírë had never known.

Elemmírë frowned absently. Did his companion not know? "I wanted to see my childhood friend," he said.

"He no longer exists," Maglor replied.

For the first time, anger rose within Elemmírë. He had travelled so far, waited so very long, only for Makalaurë to brush him aside as if he were nothing. "Really," he snapped, "then who was the ellon I heard singing not a moment ago?" He allowed his anger freedom with those words. They seemed to sting the other ellon, for the Prince cringed at his reproof.

Maglor stood quite still, breathed deeply, willing himself to stand firm. _Who was the ellon Elemmírë heard singing?_ Maglor did not know, but of one thing he was certain. "He is not Makalaurë."

Elemmírë did not believe him. "Part of him remains," he said with conviction.

"How would you know?" Maglor snapped. He could not contain his rage. What did this foolish Vanya know of him, of the ellon he had become?

"Because you are still as contrary as ever," was Elemmírë's exasperated reply. "And your voice remains as beautiful and captivating as any glittering stone your father possessed." The last words were for him, not Maglor, though he spoke them aloud. Elemmírë had always envied his friend's gift, for though he was the greatest bard of the Vanya, no voice in Arda could compare to this Noldo Prince.

The comment had an unexpected effect on its subject. Maglor's eyes laughed and a smile formed on his lips, an amused expression he wore so often in his youth. "You always did have a way with words," he said.

"Thank you," Elemmírë replied, grinning wide.

The smile upon Maglor's face faded. His thoughts returned to Elemmírë's words, Elemmírë's voice, speaking a name he had left behind with the peace of a long forgotten life. "I can not be Makalaurë again, not after...," he stopped abruptly. He had not meant to speak that thought aloud and turned fearful eyes on his companion.

"What?" Elemmírë asked.

Maglor could not meet his old friend's eyes when next he spoke. "I have done terrible things, Elemmírë," he said. "You can not imagine."

"I heard," the ellon replied.

His response angered Maglor. It was the tone of it and his choice of words. He heard._ H__e heard_? "I am sure you did," Maglor sneered, "but you do not _believe_." It was obvious, was it not? Elemmírë stood there, speaking with him as though they were still friends, as though he expected Makalaurë to return from the darkness unchanged or perhaps hoping to find a mistake had been made, and there had been no darkness at all.

Elemmírë could almost feel the anger pouring off of Maglor, but he did not know how to assuage it. He was right, truth be told. Elemmírë had spent millennia trying to reconcile his memories of Makalaurë with the tales that came to him after the flight of the Noldor. "I have spoken to those who dwell in Alqualondë," Elemmírë said. "I have seen the dead reborn, but I … I find it hard to believe you did what they say."

It was laughable – that Elemmírë could stand there and say that to him with a straight face. He wanted to be rid of the fool and forget there was ever a time when he could call such an innocent creature _friend_. "Believe," Maglor said, his eyes cold, deadly.

Elemmírë withdrew a step on instinct. That one word was like a knife to his soul. Maglor turned from the shocked expression on his companion's face and headed for the door.

"Mak…Maglor," Elemmírë called, desperate now. He did not want their reunion end in anger. Indeed, he would have preferred not to have come at all.

Despite the overwhelming desire to flee, Maglor's legs refused to obey. The sound of his Sindarin name on his old friend's lips was enough to stay him.

Elemmírë was relieved when Maglor stopped to listen. "I will be in Tirion for a time, visiting kin," he continued hastily before the ellon changed his mind. "Will you speak with me again?"

"Why?" Maglor asked.

Was that curiosity in his voice? Elemmírë could not be sure. If it were Makalaurë standing before him, he would have known. He could always read Maka's thoughts, but this ellon – this _Maglor_ – was a mystery to him. Elemmírë still held out hope that somewhere beneath the pain and anger Maglor wore like a shield, the friend he remembered remained.

"So that I may know the ellon who wears my friend's face," he answered.

Maglor offered no response. He merely stepped through the door and vanished without a backwards glance.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks to WendWriter for helping with the trouble spots. _


	8. No More Games

**Chapter 8 – No More Games**

_To understand our history, you must understand one thing, a lie – repeated often and with fervor, will become true – be there a mountain of evidence to the contrary. Morgoth's lies were superb in this regard. They were whispered so often and by so many that by the time my father lashed out against his brother, the lies had all but become true._

_I was there that day, in the courtyard below my grandfather's house when my father, in a fit of rage, pursued Fingolfin to the palace gate. I saw it then, for the first time, the depths of my father's hatred for his half-brother. He threw Fingolfin against the stone wall, and as he did so, I recalled my father's words to me, words he repeated time and time again: 'An enemy must be defeated, Kana, even if your blood flows in his veins'._

_I admit to you now – I had not been listening._

_All those years my father instructed me, I nodded as a dutiful son should, but I had not heeded his words. But his actions, in that moment, were impossible to ignore. He drew his sword and pressed the tip of the blade to my uncle's heart. Fell words he spoke, so terrible that they are remembered by all to this day. I remember them too, but it was not what he said that turned my blood to ice. It was his eyes. They were terrifying. I knew as he spoke that he meant what he said to Fingolfin, and I feared, too, that he might prove it even before the gathering crowd._

_My uncle held his tongue in the face of father's threats. And as he passed me and my brothers, Curufin and Caranthir laughed. The sound only served to deepen the horror that kindled within me. I turned to Maedhros, but found myself unable to speak. Maedhros, too, stood speechless. Father's gaze remained on his half-brother, and when Fingolfin vanished from sight, he turned away from the murmuring crowd and stepped back through the palace gate. A thing dawned on me then, a revelation to my confused mind._

_My father had raised a sword against his brother – and it was not a game._

* * *

**  
Valinor  
Age of Trees**

Elemmírë flung open the door, neglecting even the semblance of decorum in his haste. He had come as soon as he heard the news of Prince Fëanor's banishment. The story, in all its varied versions, reached the far corners of Aman with speed. It was on the lips of great Lords and common laborers alike. Elemmírë, ever the loyal friend, knew he was needed at Maglor's side.

"Makalaurë!" he called as he strode through the sitting room and on to the bed chamber. "Maka?" Elemmírë came to a halt when he reached the door. Maglor's room was in a state of disarray. Many items were strewn across the floor. The culprit was there still, shoving clothing into a wooden trunk. Elemmírë had never known his friend to be so careless with his possessions.

"What is this?" he asked, startling Maglor with his sudden appearance. "Where are you going?"

Maglor looked to the ellon in the doorway briefly before turning his attention to a drawer. He continued with his packing, avoiding his friend's gaze. "My father has been exiled from Tirion," he said in answer.

"I heard," Elemmírë replied, "but where are _you_ going?"

"I go with him," Maglor said.

"Why?" Elemmírë asked, confusion written in the lines of his face. "You have committed no crime."

"I am his son," Maglor replied, as if this explained everything.

Elemmírë might have laughed if not for the tone in which the statement was made. He found the sentiment strange coming from Maglor. There were perhaps no two ellyn in Arda _less _alike than Fëanor and his second son.

Elemmírë was about to spout something clever to that effect when a metallic glint caught his eye. A large, jewel encrusted object that resembled an oversized hunting knife lay in the middle of Maglor's bed. Elemmírë reached for it. "What is this?" he asked, as he drew the blade from its scabbard.

"It is called a sword," Maglor said, his eyes fixed purposefully on his linens.

Elemmírë studied the object in his hands. Maglor's father-name was etched into the blade. "Is this the gift from your father? The one you would not show me?" he asked.

"Yes," Maglor said after a moment's pause.

A dawning expression of understanding began to form on Elemmírë's face as he studied the blade. "Makalaurë … such a thing …," he shook his head in horror, "it could have but one purpose." Elemmírë recalled then the many tales of Fëanor's punishment. All of them said he had threatened his brother with _a great blade_. "Is _this_ what Fëanor used to threaten his brother?"

"It is," Maglor said; his tone carefully controlled.

Maglor's quiet confirmation was more than Elemmírë could bear. "This is madness!" he cried, startling the other ellon with his outburst.

"You exaggerate, as always," was Maglor's flippant reply.

"Exaggerate!" Elemmírë growled, pointing the sword at his friend's chest. "Maka, this blade was not made for cutting rope or cleaning rabbit." Maglor's expression remained an unflinching mask in the face of his accusation, and a thing occurred to Elemmírë then: so many times these last few years Maglor had excused himself from their music sessions to spend time with his brothers. It had not bothered Elemmírë, for he was glad to see Maglor and his younger siblings getting along so well. He had asked but once what they did with their father on these family afternoons. Maglor had never given him a straight answer. "Is that what you have been doing with your brothers all those long hours – learning to use this, this…?"

"Sword," Maglor cut him off angrily. He had not really expected Elemmírë to understand, but the lecture was too much for his conflicted soul to bear. "And yes, I have learned to use it. And I am skilled, Elemmírë, more talented with this blade than the harp." There was pride in Maglor's voice when he said this – and with good reason. He had never been the best at anything where is brothers were concerned. Not with anything that _mattered_.

Elemmírë understood what his friend had left unspoken – Fëanor would rather have a warrior than a musician for a son. "A harp is not meant to kill, but this…" Elemmírë tossed the sword back on the bed before turning on Maglor, cutting right to the heart of the matter. "Do you desire Curufin's place so desperately, that you would change who you are to please your father?"

Elemmírë's accusation cut deep. It angered Maglor to have another ellon expose his weaknesses so easily. In that moment something broke within Maglor and a deep pool of rage, long withheld, overflowed. "What would you have me do," he shouted, "_betray_ him, stay in Tirion and compose ballads while my brothers join him at Formenos? I am a Prince of the House of Fëanor. My place is with my family!"

Elemmírë shook his head vehemently. "Is it me you seek to convince with this tirade, or yourself?" He took Maglor by the arm, forcing his friend to face him. "Your father's reason has turned to madness. He drew a blade against his brother, Makalaurë, _his brother_!"

Maglor wrenched his arm from the other's grasp. "Fingolfin seeks to usurp my father's place," he said, as if this reason justified Fëanor's actions.

Elemmírë stared at Malgor as if he did not know the ellon at all. He could not believe his friend had used that rumor as a defense. "Why do you repeat Melkor's lies? You cannot believe them!"

Maglor, ignoring Elemmírë's words, moved to continue packing, but the other ellon blocked his path.

Frustrated, Maglor growled: "You understand nothing, Elemmírë, now step aside."

Elemmírë refused. He did understand, very well in fact. He knew the truth that drove Maglor to spout such lies and spat it back in his face. "You think you will earn your father's respect, his love with this blind loyalty?" Elemmírë dared his friend to deny it.

"I have his love," Maglor barked back with a conviction he would never feel.

"And if you cast his gift aside," Elemmírë challenged, "would you have it still?"

There was only one answer, and Maglor could not bring himself to utter it. Instead, he took the blade up from where it lay, and knocking Elemmírë out of his path, fled his rooms.

He never said goodbye.

* * *

_**A/N:** Thanks go to Wendy for her helpful betaing._


	9. The Children of Alqualondë

**Chapter 9 – The Children of Alqualondë**

_There were children playing on the docks when the Noldor slaughtered their kin at Alqualondë. _

_Did you know that? _

_It is not written in the histories, nor recorded in any song. And even now, three ages later, none among the Eldar dare speak of it. They have no words – but they do not forget. I wonder sometimes, who sings for the children of Alqualondë, who mourns for them? For if the grief of a people is silenced, unable to be set free, how can it ever be laid to rest?_

* * *

**Valinor  
Fourth Age **

Eruanna slipped out of Olwë's palace unseen by the ladies of the court. It was not that she disliked their company; she merely desired time alone to tour the city. She strolled through the market, absorbing the sights and sounds of the city, so full of life, stopping here and there to speak with vendors. As Eruanna moved further from the center of the city, her feet led her inexorably toward the sea. It was the one place Eruanna longed to visit – and yet dreaded with equal measure.

By midday Eruanna found herself at the top of the hill overlooking the docks. The sight was familiar, for she had stood on this very spot before, when she first arrived in Valinor. Those first few minutes had been such a whirlwind that it had not occurred to her that she stood on the very ground of the first kinslaying. Eruanna wanted to move closer, tour the docks again, but she could not take another step.

"Good afternoon, Eruanna," a voice called out from the path behind her.

Eruanna turned, her sights falling on a now familiar face. "And to you, Prince Ionwë," she answered with a smile and a bow. She had grown quite fond of Galadriel's uncle in the time she spent in Alqualondë. He reminded her of a mixture of her father and Lord Celeborn. The prince was wise, learned and possessing of an even temper and gentle humor that made him quite popular among the Eldar.

Ionwë graced the young elleth with a lighthearted smile. "I see you have successfully escaped the ladies of my father's court," he said.

Eruanna laughed. "It was no easy task, I can assure you."

Ionwë glanced at docks and then back to Eruanna. He had spied the elleth on his approach and seen her gaze fixed with interest upon the sea. "Have you visited the docks yet?" he asked.

Eruanna shook her head. "No," she answered.

"I would be happy to give you a tour," he replied, holding out his hand.

Eruanna was thankful for the offer, but did not wish to be any trouble. "I am sure you have more important things to attend to," she said.

"Touring the docks is an important part of my duties," he replied, "and I would enjoy the company."

Eruanna's eyes brightened. "I would enjoy a tour, then," she said, and took hold of the prince's arm.

They made their way down the hill to the sparkling blue waters. Ionwë was the perfect guide, sharing with Eruanna the many secrets that made the white ships the envy of Aman.

Eruanna marveled at the skill and artistry of the Teleri. Their ships were more spectacular even than those built by Círdan's Falathrim, built for elegance as much as utility. "They are beautiful!" Eruanna exclaimed. Even the ship she and the Ringbearers sailed in did not compare.

One of the great ships was even now dropping anchor, its crew and passengers preparing to come ashore. "Where does that ship come from?" Eruanna asked, watching the bustle from afar.

"Tol Eressëa," Ionwë replied. "Ships come and go from the island every day."

Eruanna watched the elves disembark – her gaze flitting across the many faces, but two, in particular, caught her eye, an ellon and elleth, both with long silver hair.

Ionwë followed the direction of Eruanna's gaze, easily identifying the couple she followed. "That is Anira and her brother Aearion," he told her.

"I … I believe I have seen them before," Eruanna replied, "at the Ringbearers' Feast."

Ionwë nodded and smiled, his eyes shining with laughter. "Aearion never likes to miss a party."

Eruanna's gaze shifted from the prince to Aearion and back again. "He looks like you," she said to the prince.

Ionwë laughed lightly. "I should hope so," he replied "They are the children of Círdan, my cousin."

Eruanna was more than surprised by this revelation. "I did not know Círdan had any children," she replied.

Ionwë did not appear entirely surprised. "Did you ever ask him?"

Eruanna shook her head. "I only met him briefly, when we passed through his haven to Valinor," she answered. Her gaze returned to the ellon and elleth as they made their way up the hill. She marked their resemblance to their father easily now, but the sight of them troubled her still. "There are no tales of Círdan's children in the histories of Middle-earth," she said.

"No," Ionwë replied, his tone suddenly grave. "I should think not."

Eruanna was about to ask his meaning when the sound of laughter drew her attention to the far end of the dock. A group of children were playing, jumping off the edge of the pier into the water. It was a sight Eruanna was not expecting to see.

"Are children permitted to play on the docks?" she asked suddenly.

"Of course," Ionwë said. "It is the favorite playground of every child."

Eruanna's bright expression shifted, her eyes darkening, her lips turning into a frown. "Has it always been so?"

Ionwë noted the concern in Eruanna's voice and affect, though he did not understand its source. "For as long as we have dwelled on this shore," he answered. "Why? What is wrong?"

Eruanna did not answer immediately, for she had trouble finding the proper words. Her troubled gaze shifted from the children to Ionwë, his countenance now shadowed by concern. "There is no mention of children playing on the docks," she said.

Ionwë shook his head, confused by her statement. "What do you mean?"

Eruanna clutched her hands to her chest, as if they might somehow protect her from the prince's question – and its answer. "I have read every book and lay written about the first kinslaying," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, "not one of them speaks of children."

Ionwë was struck silent by the elleth's reply. He had not been prepared for it. His attention returned to the children, laughing and splashing in the water. His chest tightened, as if a great fist clamped down on his heart. There was no answer he could give Eruanna that would be of any comfort. "There are some horrors for which there are no words," he said. It was a feeble explanation.

"And yet, words are all we have," she lamented.

Eruanna studied Ionwë who continued to watch the children play. She knew that the prince of the Teleri was older than Fëanor, old enough to have witnessed the Noldor's assault on his city. "What words would _you_ use," she asked, "if you were to tell that story?"

Ionwë's eyes grew distant, clouded by memory. The child sought answers, but what she asked for, he could not give. "I can not speak of what occurred in that battle."

Eruanna's response was slow, hesitant. "Why not?" she asked, hoping he would not think her question too impertinent and aware, for the first time, how terrible the answer might be.

Ionwë smiled – an unexpected reaction to so serious a question. "Because," he replied, "I was already dead."


	10. Treading Water

**Chapter 10 – Treading Water**

_We try to swim, but the current of our lives is often against us. It takes courage to cry out to those standing on dry land. It takes courage to ask for help. Not every soul has the strength to lean on another. Some would rather keep swimming. Some would rather drown._

* * *

**Valinor  
Fourth Age **

Erestor was a master of control and this talent served him well as he settled into a routine. He set to work, mastering his anger, reining in his hate. It was no easy task, but when the ancient ellon set his mind to accomplishing some feat, he never failed in achieving it. He was now able to sit through an entire council session without his attention straying to Maglor, who sat quietly in a far corner of the room. Maglor, for his part, was wise enough to remain largely silent. He spoke only when spoken to and rarely gave more than a single word in reply. His unobtrusive presence made him easy to ignore, and after months of concerted effort, Erestor was once again in control. His only concern was whether or not he could maintain this state of calm now that Eruanna had returned to the palace.

It was just before midday when the council meeting was adjourned. Erestor stood respectfully as the King departed and he and Elrond followed the rest of the assembly out the door.

"You were very quiet today, my friend," Elrond said.

Erestor smiled apologetically. "I am afraid my mind was elsewhere," he admitted.

Elrond suspected as much. "Would you like to tell me where that might be?" he asked, offering Erestor the opportunity to share his thoughts. He did not want to press, though he suspected Eruanna's return from Alqualonde to be the cause.

"Not really," Erestor admitted. His thoughts were not yet in order and he was not ready to discuss them.

Elrond nodded, accepting the ellon's need for privacy. He would ask again later, when Erestor was more in the mood for sharing. "Will you be joining us for dinner this eve?" he asked, changing the subject.

Erestor, thankful for the reprieve, took up the new subject. "I believe that was the plan when I left this morning," he said, recalling Eruanna's announcement of Celebrían's invitation. "I was told Celebrian wishes to renew the tradition of the house dinner."

It had been Celebrían's idea to bring the House of Elrond together for meals. The King had been gracious enough to provide a salon large enough to host all of Elrond's staff and counselors along with their families. All were pleased with the idea. It was, after all, the little things that made Valinor feel like home. Eating and laughing together with familiar faces was something they all craved, Elrond included. He looked forward to having his house gathered together again.

"It will be strange without my children," Elrond said somberly.

The sadness in his friend's tone seemed to weigh Elrond down. It was impossible for Erestor not to share his sadness. The House of Elrond would never be the same without the Lord and Lady's children. "I am sorry," he said.

A small smile curled the edges of Elrond's lips. He was, as always, ceaselessly amazed by Erestor's ability to convey such sincerity with the simplest of phrases. Perhaps it was because he was not given to emotional displays or comforting words that they meant so much to others, Elrond included. Erestor shared in his sadness, grieved with him, and while his children were not Erestor's flesh and blood he had been a vital part of their lives – and they, his.

But Elrond envied Erestor. For while he grieved for Elrond's children, his own daughter dwelled on these shores, with him, under the same roof. That was one blessing Elrond would never have again, though he still held out hope that his sons would join him in time. Yes, Elrond envied Erestor, but he was also worried for him. He knew about the incident with Eruanna before she departed for Alqualondë. Elrond had, for the most part, remained silent when his friend shared the details of their argument. Elrond's silence was not simply a kindness to Erestor. He, too, had yet to come to terms with the past and the part Maglor played in the events of his life and so he could not offer Erestor an unbiased judgment.

Elrond had, however, spent the last six months silently contemplating what advice he would have given Erestor had he been able to speak on the subject freely. It took much careful consideration, but he finally came up with something close to what could be considered advice. By the time he and Erestor arrived at his office, Elrond had found the courage to bring the issue up.

"Erestor," he began, "may I now offer you the counsel you asked for several months ago?"

Erestor's normally placid expression wavered. He did not appear too ready to receive Elrond's advice, but he nodded slowly in assent.

Elrond sat himself down, struggling with precisely how to word what he wished to convey. "I know what it is like to disagree with a daughter," he began. "If I had had my will, Arwen would be with us right now." _His will_. If only it were that simple. It was not – and that was the point. "But _if _my will had been done, and I had forced Arwen to sail, I would have lost her forever, still."

Erestor exhaled deeply. He understood Elrond's meaning and had come to the same conclusion.

"How did you do it?" Erestor asked. "How did you let her go?" It seemed shameful to Erestor that he had not asked the question before.

A small, enigmatic smile curled Elrond's lips. "Eruanna reminded me of what deep down in my heart I already knew – that my daughter was not leaving us, she was merely following her destiny."

It was just what Erestor would expect his daughter to say. He found it strange that one who had suffered so much tragedy could have such deep and abiding faith in her heart. Did Eruanna see it as her destiny to comfort Elrond that morning when his heart was broken at his daughter's choice? Did she believe Maglor, a kinslayer deserved the same?

"So" he said to Elrond, in a mildly sarcastic tone, "you believe it is Eruanna's destiny to be kind to Maglor."

Elrond was amused by Erestor's perceptiveness. He ignored the ellon's sarcasm but answered his question in earnest. "I do not know her destiny any more than you do. But I do know that the child was there when darkness was near to swallowing me whole. She pulled me back, with little more than her presence and a few honest and simple words. Perhaps that is her gift, and if so, Maglor may very well be in need of it."

It was strange to hear the concern in Elrond's voice when he spoke of Maglor. Erestor was curious to know how well Elrond was dealing with the revelation of Maglor's return. "Have you spoken to him?" Erestor asked.

Elrond shook his head. "I am not ready," he replied, "but perhaps, some day…"

Erestor pushed no further. It was easy in his rage to forget how personally his friend had been wounded by Maglor's actions. They both lost so much in Sirion. It was a pain they both shared.

Erestor laid a hand on Elrond's shoulder – a physical reminder of his support, and the lord's expression grew serious.

Elrond's thoughts turned from his own pain to Erestor's. He did not like using knowledge as a weapon, but in this case, he felt it a necessary reminder. "Do not be too hard on her, Erestor," he said. "Like all children, Eruanna must find her own path. Even you went against your father's wishes, if I recall the tale."

Erestor's jaw fell open slightly. It was true he had defied his father, but once, only once. "That was …," he began.

"Different?" Elrond finished the sentence for him.

Erestor closed his mouth. He was angry at Elrond, and did not want to say anything that he would later regret.

"Think on what I have said, Erestor," he said.

Erestor nodded and left Elrond's study without a word. He needed time alone to brood.

* * *

Maglor sat in the palace garden. It was one of three places outside his chambers he could now be found – the council room, the library and the garden. He sat always in the same location, a small alcove containing a marble fountain, the perfect place for him to ignore and be ignored. It lay off a secondary path and had two entrances on opposite sides. He sat quite intentionally where he could be spotted easily by passersby coming from either direction. They would see him, ignore him, and continue on their way. It was a lesson well learned. The first time Maglor ventured into the garden he attempted to hide himself in a quiet corner and was met with disaster. Three unsuspecting elves in rapid succession walked into the alcove. They stammered their insincere apologies for disturbing him before running off like frightened sheep. The next time he sat himself in full view of the others so they could ignore him at will, but whether he did so for his benefit or theirs he could not say.

Some time in the early afternoon a shadow fell across the page which rested on Maglor's lap. When it did not pass quickly, he looked up, and found a familiar face watching him from the trellis archway. She looked somewhat different from the last time they met, her eyes a shade or two darker. Maglor did not ask himself how he came to notice such a small change in an elleth he had spoken with only two times before. The child remained silent despite him having spotted her. This time it was Maglor who spoke first.

"How was your journey?" he asked, then turned back to his page, as though indifferent to her answer.

Eruanna had come in search of Maglor, but once she found him, she could not decide what to say. It was unnecessary to think of something when he broke the silence with a question of his own. She was a bit surprised Maglor knew she had been away. "Uneventful," she said to the ellon who had once again returned his attention to the papers on his lap.

The child added nothing further, but continued to stand there as though frozen to the spot. When he realized she stood there still he added, "And your time spent by the sea?"

Eruanna frowned at the question. "Not as peaceful as I had hoped," she replied.

"Hmm," he murmured. Maglor was listening to her answers, partly, but his attention was divided between the elleth and the page beneath his hand. He made two marks upon it with a quill before frowning. "Damn!"

The prince's short bark startled Eruanna. She took one step into the alcove and peered down at the stack of papers on Maglor's lap, curiosity getting the better of her. "What are you working on?" she asked.

"Land allocations," Maglor grumbled. "My uncle feels I need to be of greater use."

Eruanna noted Maglor's displeasure at the idea. She found it strange. Eruanna always liked feeling useful.

Maglor sighed in frustration. This simple task Fingolfin set for him was becoming quite tedious. "I never did care for arithmetic," he muttered. "It has been awhile since I needed to do anything more than pay a tavern keeper for a meal."

Eruanna took one step closer. She was good with calculations. Her work in Elrond's house had demanded it. "May I see?" she asked, holding out her hand.

Maglor was reluctant to show her his work. The last thing he needed was for this child to call him a fool. On the other hand, he had been working on the same problem for awhile now. A fresh pair of eyes could be helpful. He had nothing to lose. It had been a long time since Maglor possessed anything that resembled pride. He handed her the parchment.

Eruanna took the parchment and a seat beside Maglor. She started at the beginning, and in the midst of her efforts, pulled the quill Maglor had been using right out of his hand. She made her own marks beside Maglor's, working out the sum for herself one step at a time to see where he had gone wrong.

At the same moment Eruanna entered the garden, another elf searched for Maglor. The king was not surprised to find Maglor's room empty when he arrived to speak with his nephew. Fingolfin was well aware that the ellon had finally found the courage to venture outside his cloister, if only on a limited basis. He came upon a servant who informed him that Maglor had been seen in the garden. It both amused and worried the king how closely the palace staff kept track of Maglor's whereabouts. They did not trust him – but then, they had no reason to.

The king had no trouble finding Maglor in the great maze that was the palace gardens. The elves who frequented these paths knew where Maglor could be found, and Fingolfin noted how quickly they departed in the opposite direction. Fingolfin neared the fountain hideaway, just in time to hear Maglor speak, and a soft female voice answer. He slowed his step, and approached the alcove in silence. Peering through the archway, he saw the half-elven child speaking with Maglor - again. He watched as she reached out and took a piece of parchment from Maglor. Then, to Fingolfin's astonishment, she sat down beside his nephew, as though he were a friend, not a monster to be feared. She even pulled a quill directly from his hand.

A smile formed on Eruanna's face when she discovered the problem. "You forgot to carry the five – here – that is why the sum is off." Eruanna held out the paper to Maglor, pointing out the step he missed.

Maglor could tell that the elleth was pleased with herself, but there was no hint of arrogance in her tone. She sounded like a teacher, correcting a student's work. He examined the page. "So I did," he said, noting his mistake. "Thank you."

Fingolfin, listening still, smiled at his nephew's simple words of gratitude. A 'thank you' was more appreciation than he had received from Maglor in ages. Not that he was complaining. Fingolfin would rather have his nephew's frustrated rage directed at him than Lord Erestor's child. Still, a 'thank you' now and again would be a welcome change.

Having seen and heard enough, Fingolfin retreated as silently as he had come. He wanted to speak with Maglor, but what he had to say was not so important that it warranted interrupting the first conversation Maglor had had with another soul in months. He could find Maglor later. Fingolfin made his way back to the palace, and as he did so, an idea formed in his mind – a way to solve two of his problems at once. But first, he needed to find Elrond.

Eruanna tried to return Maglor's gesture of gratitude, but found herself unable to form a smile.

Maglor noticed her discomfort. The elleth's expression was impossible to read, but it was clear to Maglor that something was troubling her. She wore a similar expression on her face when she stood upon the balcony, and while Maglor was not particularly eager for her merciless questioning, he was feeling generous at the moment.

"Out with it already," he said tiredly. "You have something to say to me. I see it in your eyes."

Eruanna did not take Maglor up on his offer immediately. His invitation to speak was not very enthusiastic. Still, he sat and waited patiently for her to begin. _Well, this was the reason she came looking for him. _"I met Prince Ionwë," she blurted without preamble.

Maglor's expression darkened measurably. He knew immediately where this conversation was headed. There was no way to stop it now. "Did you," he said, offering her nothing.

Eruanna nodded. "He showed me the docks," she said, "and the white ships."

Maglor remembered the ships – all too well. "They are quite impressive," he replied.

Eruanna grew nervous as she drew closer to the heart of the matter, but Maglor's eyes told her he already knew what was coming. She inhaled deeply, one steadying breath. "He showed me, too, where he died."

Maglor was impressed by the elleth's courage to confront him with this. She even looked him in the eye when she spoke. He nodded. "The top of the hill," he said, "overlooking the docks. He was pierced through the heart, before he fell from the cliff into the sea."

Eruanna's heart pounded in her chest. Ionwë had showed her the cliff and the hill, he told her how he died, how he fell, but he refused to say who struck him down. He refused to say, and for that reason alone, Eruanna knew the answer.

"You remember?" she asked, her voice a mere whisper.

"You think I could forget?" Maglor wanted to laugh, but a sharp pain in his chest prevented it.

_Did she truly believe he could forget?_

All he had was memory. He remembered the docks, the ships, and the very moment he lifted his sword – and fell from grace.


	11. Icons of our Destruction

**Chapter 11 – Icons of our Destruction**

_It happened so fast. The details are difficult to recall. The Trees were destroyed, and without warning, a great darkness fell on Valinor. _

_The Council was convened and Yavanna told the people that the Trees could be restored by the light of the Silmarils, but my father refused to give them up. He refused. He refused! I can not tell you why. I never understood it. But in the end, Fëanor's stubbornness mattered little. Melkor stole the Silmarils. He slaughtered Finwë, my grandfather, took the jewels, and fled with them to Middle-earth. Father cried. I had never seen him cry before. To this very day I know not whether the tears he shed were for the loss of his father - or his jewels. _

_He rallied our people. He swore an Oath to reclaim that which was lost, and we, his sons, echoed his cry. It was the beginning of the end, our Oath. We laid the path to our destruction with those terrible words. I know that now. But what is worse, and that which I fear to confess, is that I knew it then, too._

* * *

**Valinor  
Age of Trees**

Fëanor wanted a private audience with the ruler of the Teleri. While the two kings argued in the audience chamber, their sons waited in the hall. Every few minutes a raised voice could be heard through the door – Olwë's or Fëanor's in turn. Caranthir, Celegorm and Curufin grew tired of waiting after an hour had passed. They began to grumble, so Maedhros sent them back to the encampment. Only the youngest and oldest of Fëanor's sons remained behind to wait for their father, but soon their patience, too, wore thin.

"They have been in there for over an hour," Amras whined.

Maglor shared his brother's frustration, but was old enough to restrain himself from complaining. "I am aware of that," he replied none too kindly.

Amras' face fell at his brother's rebuke.

Maglor noted the effect his words had on his little brother and immediately regretted his words. He had not meant to bite. He gave the young ellon an apologetic smile which Amras returned.

Amrod, watching the exchange, sat himself beside Maglor. He was not as effusive as his twin, but was equally concerned with what was happening beyond the chamber doors. "Do you think it a bad omen?" he whispered. Both Amrod and Amras yearned for Maglor to tell them all would be well.

Maglor, for his part, wished he could put his little brothers at ease, but all he could offer them was a shrug. He looked to Maedhros, who sat beside Ionwë.

Maedhros saw his brother's eyes upon him and he had not missed Amrod's question. He knew from experience that King Olwë could be as stubborn as their father, and the sound of raised voices was not a good sign. He turned to Ionwë. "What do _you_ think your father will do?" he asked in hushed tones.

Ionwë frowned and shook his head. "He will not give Fëanor our ships, that much I can promise you."

No sooner had the Telerin prince spoken those words then the door to Olwë's audience chamber was flung open. Fëanor strode purposefully from the room – a tower of lightly suppressed rage.

"We are leaving," Fëanor growled as he passed his sons.

Amrod and Amras followed quickly on Fëanor's heels. Maedhros stood slowly and cast one solemn glance in Ionwë's direction, before joining Maglor. The two brothers wore the same expression of disappointment as they followed in the wake of their father's angry steps.

* * *

There was no need for Fëanor to curse Olwë. The lords of his house did that for him. There were twenty ellyn gathered in the king's tent. Of them, Caranthir was the most vocal, but several other loyal ellon matched him in venom as they spoke of the Telerin king. Fëanor waited for the right moment – the moment when the anger of the few had crept into the hearts of the rest. Several of the ellyn began to talk strategy, arguing with one another over what to do next. It was then that Fëanor lifted his right hand.

When the assembly fell silent and all eyes were again upon him, Fëanor said, "Crossing Belegaer is the only way. The Helcaraxë is too perilous."

Maedhros shook his head and several of the gathered lords looked at their king in confusion. "But Olwë will not yield his ships," Maedhros said. _Had his father not just told them this?_

"Then we will _take _them," Fëanor announced to the assembly.

This proclamation was met with approval from the greater part of the crowd. Caranthir nodded and smiled, but Maedhros was unsure. "Take them how?" he asked.

"Gather round," Fëanor said with a smile and his sons and lords obeyed. Their king began to draw in the sand. He drew the shoreline, the docks, and the cliffs. He told them of the plan that had formed in his mind as the others spoke. They would come upon the docks at night and steal the Telerin ships. There were many questions at first, some protests, but the more Fëanor told of his plan, the more difficult it became to find a flaw in it_. _

_The Noldor were greater in number. The Noldor were wiser. The Noldor could sneak to the docks, seize the ships and vanish into the night before the seafarers were the wiser. It was their right. It was their destiny. It was their one and only chance. _

Maglor stood silently while his father spoke. He listened to everything that was said by Fëanor and the lords of his father's court, but offered nothing. He merely waited, waited for someone to state the obvious. His father's eyes fell upon him a time or two during the discussions, but Maglor bit his tongue. He did not want to be the one to call his father out – to call him a liar. The others had to see it! But what seemed clear enough as the discussion lengthened was that Maglor _was _the only one who saw the flaw in the plan.

When all was agreed upon the assembly broke. The lords of the Noldor took their orders from Fëanor and departed, readying themselves for the night ahead. Maglor remained in the tent, rooted to the ground by a sense of urgency. He could not walk away without being sure.

Fëanor turned to Maglor when the last of his servants departed and they were finally alone. He knew there was something on his son's mind. He read it in Maglor's eyes during the meeting. "You have been silent, my son," he said. "I would hear your thoughts."

Maglor frowned. His father was rarely pleased with his thoughts. "Would you?" he asked, unsure.

"Of course," Fëanor replied. He gestured to the sand where his drawings could still be seen. "Tell me what you think of our plan. Will it work?"

Maglor always grew wary when his father asked for his opinion. Yet the opening was there. This was his moment – _but what to say?_ "Yes," he replied, "and no."

Fëanor did not appear the least bit surprised by his son's answer, but still he asked, "Why no?"

"Because," Maglor replied, "they will not let us take the ships."

Fëanor laughed lightly. "Of course they won't," he said, as if this should have been obvious from the start.

Maglor's heart sank. All the while he listened to Fëanor's plan he had tried to convince himself that his father had failed to understand this. It was becoming clear to him that was not the case. "They will try to stop us," Maglor continued.

"They will _try_," Fëanor replied.

"People will die," Maglor said, his voice betraying both horror and disbelief.

Fëanor's answer was cold as ice. "Only those who stand in our way."

Part of Maglor wanted to believe he was dreaming, that he had not heard his father speak those words, but he knew in his heart that this was all very real. Fëanor knew there would be blood. He knew, and yet, he said nothing of this during the discussion of his 'plan'. Not one word.

"Adar." Maglor closed his eyes and shook his head. He did not wish to look at his father now. A wave of nausea overtook him. He was going to be sick.

Fëanor came to stand beside Maglor. He could see the narrow ledge his son stood upon. Any ill-chosen word or action could push him off the edge. This was a dangerous moment for the king, for he needed this son. He needed him in the battles to come. But Maglor was ready to flee, to return home to his mother. That could not happen. Maglor was _his_ son now, his right arm, and Fëanor was not prepared to lose him.

"Kana, look at me," Fëanor said.

Maglor, as ever, did as his father commanded. He lifted his chin and looked straight into his father's eyes.

When Fëanor once again held his son's gaze, he set a firm hand on his shoulder – a father's assurance, a warrior's embrace. "We fight now for freedom, my son," he said, his passion driving the words home, "and I _need _you … I need you by my side."

There was a slow, subtle shift in Maglor's expression and Fëanor knew no more words were needed – the argument was won.

* * *

The Noldor who could not fight, most of the women and the children, were sent to the north side of the city to await the ships, while the ellyn went south to the docks. The Noldor made a show of preparing to leave Alqualondë, and then circled the city at a safe distance, waylaying any Teleri on the road who might raise the alarm.

Fëanor and his sons and many of the most loyal lords went south along the main path to the cliff, while the bulk of the Noldor circled around and approached the docks from the south. The darkness that covered Valinor was, for the first time, a true blessing. It offered the Noldor cover as they closed in on their target. All was quiet as they approached the cliffs, and Maglor found himself thinking that perhaps the plan to sneak off with the ships could succeed without incident. His hopes were shattered when he saw who awaited them at the top of the hill.

Ionwë sat leisurely upon a seat carved into the stone wall. And when Fëanor and his sons reached him, they could see that a contingent of Telerin archers waited below. Ionwë stood gracefully and met Fëanor on the road. "King Fëanor." He acknowledged the ellon with a nod. "Out for a stroll?"

"We have come for the ships," Fëanor replied.

Ionwë immediately dropped the pretence of civility. His eyes narrowed in disgust. "My father suspected you might," he said.

Fëanor took a step closer to the Telerin prince. Maedhros and Maglor took up position behind him. "Step aside," Fëanor hissed, "and let us pass."

Ionwë laughed in Fëanor's face – a dark, bitter sound that echoed off the cliffs. "I am not your servant, Fëanor. This is my city. You have no authority here."

Ionwë's laughter only fueled Fëanor's rage. "You will stand aside, Ionwë. Whether you choose to move, or I choose for you."

"Such vanity!" Ionwë shouted. "You cry that Melkor raped your Silmarils, and now you come to steal our ships."

There was no place in Fëanor's heart for this truth. The Teleri mattered not. Only his Oath and the Silmarils mattered. "I will see Morgoth cast down," the Noldo replied. "Before the eyes and ears of my people I have sworn it."

Ionwë shook his head. "You will not see that day, Fëanor," he said. "You are no Vala. Melkor will not be defeated by arrogance alone. Return to Tirion. Beg Manwë's forgiveness for your rash words. He will absolve you."

"I will beg of no Vala," Fëanor spat. "And you will step aside, before you find yourself begging _me_ for forgiveness." The king lowered his hand to grasp the hilt of his sword.

Ionwë followed the movement of Fëanor's hand. "And if I refuse, will you draw that blade against me as you did your brother?"

Fëanor's eyes narrowed. "Do not tempt me," he replied.

Ionwë sneered in the face of Fëanor's threat. "You always were an arrogant cur."

The insult was too much for the king. Rage moved his hand. He went to draw his sword, but Ionwë was faster. He stayed Fëanor's hand with one arm, and with the other, drove a fist into Fëanor's face. The force of the blow knocked the king back into Maedhros' arms.

Maglor saw Ionwë's muscles tense the moment before he struck. He saw the blow coming before his father did, blinded as Fëanor was with rage. Ionwë lashed out, and as blood poured from Fëanor's mouth, fear and anger and fifty years of training took control of Maglor's hand. "Father!" he shouted, and drew his blade. In one practiced thrust, he drove the tip through Ionwë's heart.

Ionwë gasped when the sword plunged into him, and he looked down at his chest in surprise. He took hold of the blade with his right hand, and lifting the other arm, gripped Maglor's shoulder with his left. He could feel his spirit breaking free of his body and the pull of Mandos' Halls. He lifted his eyes to Maglor's - and saw fear.

"May the Valar forgive you," he gasped.

Ionwë pushed against Maglor to free himself from the blade. He fell backward and tumbled over the rocky ledge. He hit the cliff wall three times before his body crashed into the sea. The elves behind Maglor and those waiting below watched the Telerin prince fall. The horrified silence of the crowd was broken by the voice of the king.

"Forward!" Fëanor cried. "To the ships!" With his words, the Teleri and Noldor sprang into action, and some time later, the battle was lost and won.

* * *

A few days later and many miles north of Alqualondë, Maglor sat gazing out across the sea. He was not _looking _at the water, though it sparkled with the light of Varda's stars. He was listening to the water churn as the waves crashed along the shoreline. If he listened to the waves, if he focused on the roar of the sea, he might drown out the memory of breaking bones and anguished screams.

After several hours alone by the sea, a familiar figure approached him. Maglor saw him from the corner of his eye. He did not greet his brother, even when Maedhros took a seat beside him on the water-worn stone.

Maedhros waited to be acknowledged by his brother, but as the silence lengthened, he knew _he_ would have to be the one to break it. "Maka," Maedhros whispered. "Maka, speak to me."

Maglor sighed – the first sign he knew his brother was there at his side. "And say what?" he asked, without averting his gaze.

Maedhros had no reply. He did not know what he wanted his brother to say. He desired only to hear Maglor's voice. He had to find something to start his brother talking. He began with what the ellon had missed. "Finarfin is returning to Tirion with his people. Fingolfin's people fear the Valar's wrath. He will follow father."

Maglor acknowledged his brother's statement with a small nod, but said nothing. He was not in the mood to speak to Maedhros and he could wait his brother out. Maglor had driven Maedhros off more than once with the pointed use of silence.

Maedhros knew it could be hours before Maglor spoke again. He knew, also, why Maglor pushed him away. The pain Maedhros carried was nearly unbearable, and he could only imagine how much greater that agony was for Maglor. Maedhros, at least, did not carry the burden of being _the first_ of the Noldor to draw the blood of their kin. And Maglor had not killed some faceless Teleri. Ionwë was a friend.

"We did what we had to, Makalaurë," Maedhros said.

"Did we?" Maglor asked.

"Ionwë attacked father," Maedhros continued, "he would have …"

"Would have what?" Maglor shouted, cutting him off. "He had a bow, Maitimo, a fishing knife. Are you so much of a fool that you did not see? They were never going to stop us – and father knew it. He knew we would slaughter the seafarers. Before he fled Olwë's palace, the plan was already formed in his mind."

Maedhros was taken aback by Maglor's venom, his anger – and his words. "No." Maedhros shook his head, horrified by the very idea that their father could have planned for this. "That is not true."

"You _are_ a fool," Maglor spat. He stood and took off down the beach, away from the encampment. He needed to escape his brother, escape them all. He could barely stand looking at Maedhros, at the blood that still stained his hands and face.

"Wait!" Maedhros cried, rising to follow his brother.

Maglor spun around. "What?" he shouted in return.

A wave of guilt washed over Maedhros at the question. There _was_ a reason, other than Maglor's state of mind, which brought Maedhros in search of his brother. "The Ambarussa can not sleep," he answered quietly. "They were asking for you. I think they wish for you to sing to them."

Maglor's response was bitter. "What shall I sing of, Maitimo, light and laughter?"

Maglor's coldness was more painful to Maedhros than the point of a sword. Maglor was always the brother the youngest ones turned to for comfort. His melodic voice was the one thing that could keep their nightmares at bay.

"They need you, Maka," Maedhros said, his voice pleading.

Maglor looked away. He closed his eyes and focused on the roar of the sea. He did not want to think about his brothers, but he found himself suddenly in Maedhros' embrace. The ellon wrapped an arm around his shoulder and rested his forehead against his.

"They need you," Maedhros whispered, repeating his former words. But there was more to Maedhros' request, for Maglor was also Maedhros' closest companion, his age-mate, _his _brother. The one he could rely on and trust to stand beside him. Maglor could not turn away, not now, when Maedhros needed him most. "And _I_ need you, too."

The desperation in his brother's voice was enough to break Maglor's heart. A single tear fell from the corner of his eye, but he wiped it angrily away. Maglor refused to weep, for he knew if he started, he might never stop. There were more important matters to deal with now – comforting the twins, supporting Maedhros, organizing the people, leading them across the sea ...

There was no time for tears.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ Did this chapter please? I hope so. I'm not sure if it came out right. Let me know what you think. Feedback is always appreciated :)_

_Thanks to the wonderful WendWriter for helping me patch the holes in this chapter. It was a difficult one to write. _


	12. What to do?

**Chapter 12 – What to do?**

_Each of us has a calling. A bard sings. A healer heals. A teacher instructs. I had often thought my gift to be one of letters – to write and draw the forgotten histories of Middle-earth. Later it occurred to me that writing down the stories of the past was only half as important as listening to the tales recounted by those who had been there.

* * *

_**Valinor  
Fourth Age**

Eruanna spent the next several days alone in her rooms. She dared not wander the gardens, despite the draw of the fragrant blossoms and the cool autumn breeze. She had much to think on. She had not expected Maglor to speak so plainly about the kinslaying at Alqualondë. Elves simply did not _speak _of those events – not in her experience, anyway. She had not been prepared to hear the details of the battle – or Ionwë's death. Maglor said he attacked the prince on instinct, without thought of the consequences. Eruanna wanted to call him a liar. She wanted to believe it was impossible to deal out death so thoughtlessly. She didn't want to believe that he had killed _his friend_ in a moment of blind fear or rage or whatever emotion it was that claimed his heart when he lashed out at Ionwë.

There was only one problem.

Eruanna had seen such an act as Maglor described once before. She had seen it when her father slaughtered the orcs to save her. _'But they were orcs!'_ a small voice in her mind cried, defending Erestor and his brutality. And yet, her heart knew it made no difference. Orc or man or elf – her father would have done the same to any who brought her to harm. She knew it, deep inside, and in that same place the truth of Maglor's confession gnawed at her soul. For his father he had killed, for his people his hands were stained with blood.

It was no excuse – but it was a reason – one that many could understand. And that was it, was it not, the true reason the Eldar spoke not of such things? If they did, they would have to admit that they, too, were each capable of heinous deeds, and for reasons as pure and noble as the love of a parent – or a child.

_Still, it was no excuse…_

Eruanna tried to distract herself from these disturbing thoughts with paper and pencil, but her thoughts remained with the seafarers. She drew the docks and the children at play from memory along with the cliff overlooking the sea where Ionwë and so many others fell.

A touch of a hand on her shoulder brought Eruanna swiftly to attention. She looked up to find her mother peering over her shoulder, her expression full of concern.

"Are you feeling well, Eruanna?" Irimë asked.

"I – I am fine," Eruanna replied. She was _not _fine of course, but said so out of habit and a desire to avoid discussing the matter. Eruanna clung momentarily to the futile hope that her mother might let it go. She was not so lucky.

Irimë took a seat beside her daughter, and with a frown, brushed Eruanna's hair back over her shoulder. "You have not been fine since Alqualondë, why don't you tell me what's troubling you?" Irimë said. Her eyes shifted to the parchment on her daughter's lap.

Eruanna saw where her mother's attention was drawn and quickly closed the folder on the image of the sea. She hugged her drawings tightly to her chest, unwilling to share them with anyone. They had become as much a diary of her thoughts and fears, as a collection of illustrations. She was silent for a long time, her thoughts wandering to the sea, to Middle-earth and back again. She was not ready to speak with anyone about Maglor, but could not leave her mother's question unanswered. And there _was_ something – something else that had begun to gnaw at her as the newness of Valinor wore off and the days of travel and excitement drew to a close. These thoughts, at least, she could share with another.

"Perhaps I am feeling a bit … displaced," Eruanna began. "We have been so busy. I feel as if a century's worth of excitement has filled each day since I arrived. Now that we have settled in …" Eruanna shrugged, and lifted her eyes to meet her mother's. "What does one _do_ in Valinor?"

Irimë was surprised by her daughter's question and did not entirely understand her meaning. "Do?" She repeated the word. "What do you mean?"

Eruanna tried to better explain her concerns. "Imladris was one of the few safe havens in Middle Earth. There was always something new and exciting happening, history to be recorded, work to be done ... but here… I am not sure what my place will be in this world where life goes on, unchanged, forever, and where there are so many others, more worthy, to carry out my tasks."

Irimë rested a hand on her daughter's shoulder in comfort. "You are not the first to have such thoughts," she told her. "It will take time to adjust to life in Valinor. And as for work, do not worry yourself about such things. You have forever to find your place here."

Eruanna frowned slightly. _Forever?_ She wasn't sure she could wait that long without fading away from boredom.

* * *

King Fingolfin had a problem, and the trouble was the only solution he had found to it had the potential to be a monumental disaster. He considered multiple angles of approach, before realizing he required outside help, or more accurately, when his brother pointed out the need for it. He strode down the long corridor with a purpose, Finarfin at his side, who had wished to accompany his brother on this errand as a measure of support. Fingolfin prayed he would not be in need of it.

"I never realized how far from the main section of the palace Elrond was housed," Finarfin said as they walked. "I hope your grandson does not think it an affront."

Fingolfin chuckled. "It _has_ been getting a little crowded around here."

"You could always add on another wing," his brother offered.

Fingolfin smirked. "Or you and your sons could move in with your wife's kin."

Finarfin's eyes widened at his brother's suggestion. "The Valar forbid," he said in mock horror.

The pair arrived at their destination and Finarfin knocked on the door. He turned back to his brother while they waited. "Do you have your speech prepared?"

Fingolfin frowned slightly. He did, in fact, have a speech ready.

The door opened, answered by a silver-haired elleth. Celebrían dipped her head out of respect and then greeted her guests with a smile. "My king, grandfather, please come in, what can I do for you this afternoon?"

The ellyn bowed and entered. "We seek your husband," said the king. "Is he at home?"

"No, I'm afraid you have missed him. He and Erestor left early this morning to check on our new house. Construction began last week."

Fingolfin's plans were put on hold in that moment. He knew of his grandson's plans to tour the valley but did not realize he had meant today. "Ah, yes, it slipped my mind."

Finarfin took his granddaughter's arm in his as they moved though the foyer. "You must be eager to have halls to call your own."

She did, indeed, but there were some things about the palace she would miss. "It will be a pleasant change, though I will miss having my grandfather close by."

Finarfin laughed warmly and patted her hand. "You are welcome in my home any time you like. The journey across the city should not be too great an obstacle."

Her grandfather's humor made her smile, but with a glimpse of the king's expression, her spirits fell. "You seem troubled, my lord, are you certain I can be of no assistance?"

"I am _not _certain," Fingolfin answered.

"Well then, let us have a cup of tea and discuss the matter."

Her guests accepted her offer and she led them to the parlor and offered them each a chair. A servant brought tea and biscuits for the company and when the elleth departed Celebrían turned her attention to her granduncle.

"Tell me," Fingolfin began, "what is your impression of Lord Erestor's daughter?"

"Eruanna?" Celebrían was far from expecting the elleth to be the topic of conversation and could not imagine why Fingolfin would be asking after her. She offered him her impressions of the child. "She is a sweet elleth, kind, intelligent – wise beyond her years."

"You do not think her naive?" he asked.

"Do you?"

A sigh escaped Fingolfin and he allowed himself another sip of tea before answering. "Not many would willingly speak with Maglor Fëanorion."

_Maglor. _With his name the relevance of the king's questioning became clearer. Celebrían was well aware of the child's strange habit of seeking out the reclusive prince. It was common knowledge in the palace and a matter of some tension within her house. According to Elrond and Glorfindel, Erestor had been furious when he learned of her actions.

Celebrian frowned. "Does that make Eruanna naïve, or the many, cruel?"

It was the king's turn to be surprised. If it were not for the silver locks which framed the lady's face, Fingolfin would have sworn it was Galadriel who had spoken. "Has anyone ever told you that you bear a striking resemblance to your mother?"

Celebrían's smile was his answer. "What is the reason for your interest in Eruanna?"

It was Finarfin's turn to speak. "We have given Maglor duties to keep him busy and give him something to contribute."

"And?"

"He needs an assistant, a scribe," he continued. "I have asked all those I thought might…" Finarfin's voice trailed off. There was no one willing to serve Maglor and neither he nor his brother could blame them.

Fingolfin continued where his brother left off. "I cannot simply command someone to work with him. It would not be right."

"I see," Celebrían said. "You thought you might ask Eruanna?"

Fingolfin laughed humorlessly. "Or perhaps I seek a reason not to." Any reason would do. But after seeing the elleth with Maglor, it seemed like the right choice.

Celebrían considered the king's dilemma and recalled a previous conversation she had had with Ionwë. He had spoken with Eruanna of his death and the first kinslaying. She knew the truth of Maglor's past and not just from books, but from ellyn who had lived through it all. "She is no fool, uncle," she said, invoking the familiar. "She knows what Maglor is, the pain he caused so many. She speaks to him despite this knowledge, not for lack of it."

Fingolfin nodded, accepting his niece's assessment. "Do you think she will agree to work with him?"

Celebrían shrugged daintily, her lips drawing into a frown. "I think the question is, will Erestor agree?"

Fingolfin lifted a hand to rub his temple. "I have considered that, which is why I came to speak to Elrond. If anyone can help Lord Erestor see reason, he can."

Celebrían wasn't so sure her husband would be of much help. He had his own history with Maglor which was even longer, darker and more complicated. But as for her thoughts… "I think it is an excellent idea. Eruanna might even do more good for him than simply copying his letters."

"How do you mean?" Finarfin asked.

Celebrían looked down at her hands, considering her answer, before lifting her gaze to her grandfather's face. "I do not know if Elrond would be here now if not for Eruanna," she confessed. "She gives him strength, brings peace to his soul."

Finarfin frowned. "Does that trouble you?" His granddaughter's good health and happiness had been his greatest wish since she first came to them from Middle Earth. He cared for her greatly.

But there was no cause for concern.

"It might have," she said, "in the past. I love my husband, but there are things I have never understood about him." She sought an explanation that would help her grandfather and uncle understand. It was not easy to explain the peredhil. Even she, who had wed a half-elf and spent an age by his side, hardly understood them. "Just as men and elves are separated by great mysteries, so the peredhil have mysteries of their own. When I see him with his parents or Eruanna, it all makes sense. The peredhil understand each other."

These words stirred old thoughts in Fingolfin. "I have often wondered about my half-elven sons, what lies in their hearts and what their lives were like before I knew them."

"A terrible loneliness plagued Elrond's soul," Celebrían admitted.

Fingolfin presumed as much, even in the short time he had known the ellon, such long held pain shone through. "We are with him now," he said, "he is not alone anymore."

"No," she said, "he isn't."

The king stood and took his niece's hand. "Thank you, my lady, for your wisdom. I will think on it."

Celebrían smiled kindly at her granduncle. He had a wisdom of his own and kindness in his heart and he tried hard to make things right. "I know not everyone understands why you took Maglor in, but my mother and I believe it right."

Fingolfin smiled, thankful for her support. He only wished that Maglor and the rest of Tirion would agree with them. "You may be the only ones who do."


	13. A Thousand Words

**Chapter 13 – A Thousand Words**

_I should not have forgotten the pictures. They hold within their lines more truth than words can express.

* * *

_

**Valinor  
Fourth Age**

Erestor stood silent through it all. He listened to the king's proposal. He listened to Finarfin and to Elrond and to his daughter, as well. And when all finally fell silent and turned their eyes on him he had but one thing to say.

"No."

"Ada …" Eruanna began but she was cut off.

"I forbid it," he said, lightly suppressed anger clear in his trembling voice and narrowed eyes.

Elrond stepped forward, hoping to offer the child assistance. "Erestor," he said.

But Erestor ignored him, and surprised them all as he rounded on Fingolfin, unleashing the whole of his fury on his new lord and king. "You think because the Eldar have forgiven your crimes that he deserves the same. I tell you now, it _will_ … _not _… _happen!_" He turned then and fled the king's audience chamber leaving those behind in a state of shock.

"Ada," Eruanna cried when words finally returned to her. She started after him, but a hand stopped her.

Fingolfin took Eruanna by the arm as she passed. "No," he said. "Let him go. He needs time."

* * *

Eruanna paced nervously about her bedchamber while her mother sat on the edge of the bed, trying her best to comfort her.

"You should have seen him shout at the king, naneth." Eruanna wrung her hands. This was all her fault. She knew the king's idea would upset him. She had told him so. But Fingolfin and Elrond had assured her they would approach Erestor with care. They had, but it had not mattered in the end.

"He is afraid," Irimë said, quietly.

"I know," she replied. But afraid of what, exactly, was what Eruanna wished to know. He had told her before that he feared for her safety, but Eruanna knew there was more to it than that. The memories that Maglor awakened in Erestor had such a powerful hold on his soul. Eruanna knew how vivid such painful memories could be. She had captured some of her own with paper and ink, _with paper and ink…_

Eruanna flew from the room.

"Eruanna!" Irimë shouted and followed close on the younger elleth's heels. "Where are we going?" she asked, when she finally caught up with her.

"To the library."

The whole of Elrond's library was housed in the same wing as their quarters and it took only a few moments to arrive there. Eruanna oriented herself to the layout and pulled a large book from a high shelf.

"What is that?" Irimë asked.

Eruanna laid the book out on a reading table. "The first book in Quenya I ever read. It is an account of The Silmarillion, written and illustrated by Erestor. He saw me with it in the library when I first came to Imladris. I liked the pictures, but could not understand the words." She opened the tome and flipped through its pages until she arrived at the page she was searching for – a drawing of Maglor Fëanorion on the banks of the Sirion.

Irimë studied the drawing with a growing sense of unease. "It is a most accurate likeness," she whispered.

Eruanna shut the tome and lifted it into her arms. "I have to find him."

Irimë was not certain that was a good idea, but the desire to help her daughter outweighed her concerns. "I saw Glorfindel earlier," she said. "He told me he had spotted Erestor on the north tower."

Eruanna kissed her mother hurriedly, thankful for her help, and went off in search of her father.

* * *

Eruanna found Erestor seated on the balcony of the high tower. When she stepped through the doorway and out into the sunlight he pulled his eyes off the horizon and turned his attention to her. They stared at one another in silence and Eruanna used the time to gauge her father's mood. There was no anger remaining in his eyes – only a mixture of pain and shame.

Erestor was the first to look away. "I can not believe I spoke that way to the king," he said.

Eruanna took a seat by his side, using the time it took to cover the distance to decide what she would say. "I am certain he feels the same way," she said softly.

Erestor leaned over and rested his head in his hands. It seemed to Eruanna as if he would weep, but he made no sound, only hid his face from sight.

Eruanna clutched the book tighter against her chest. She did not want to upset her father further, she wanted to help him. But as Glorfindel told her once long ago, sometimes a bone must be broken if it is to be properly set. She was no Glorfindel, but she loved Erestor and wanted to see his soul put aright.

"Do you want to know how I knew him?" she asked.

"Knew who?" he said without lifting his head.

"Maglor … when he arrived at the ship."

Erestor straightened then, and met her gaze with curious eyes. "How?"

"I recognized his face from an illustration," she said, and laid his book on her lap. She opened it to the proper page and stared down at the image of Maglor, his face and armor stained with blood. "It is a startling likeness," she said, softly. "One might think the ellon who drew it had done so from memory."

Erestor's voice caught in his throat. He was barely able to utter the words, "He did."

Eruanna closed the book and set it aside. She took Erestor's arm in hers and rested her head against his shoulder. "Tell me," she whispered.

Erestor's fist rose to his lips. The very idea of speaking … of telling anyone the tale behind this drawing made him ill. He had spoken with Glorfindel once, but that was different, and he had not shared with him the details of those events. "I have spoken of that day only once before, but have never shared the whole of the tale with anyone."

"Why?" Eruanna asked, conscious of how fragile her father's voice sounded in her ears. "What could be more terrible than what is already written in this book?"

* * *

_**Footnote reminder: **Fingolfin killed elves in the first kinslaying. Feanor's people arrived in Alqualonde first, and started the fight, but when Fingolfin's people arrived, they thought the Teleri had attacked Feanor so they jumped into the fray to defend their people. Only later did Fingolfin learn that it was Feanor who began it. Finarfin arrived last after the battle was done. Horrified, he and his people returned to Tirion to beg the Valar's forgiveness. Fingolfin's people followed Feanor, mostly because they feared the Valar's wrath for having committed murder. Fingolfin went too, because he had sworn to be loyal to his older brother and because he did not want to be parted from his people.  
_


	14. Kinslayer

**Chapter 14 – Kinslayer**

_They do not call me kinslayer, but there is blood on my hands. An ocean's worth of water cannot wash away the stain. I have tried to forget, tried to leave the dead behind, but their ghosts will never leave me. I can still see their faces. Even now, I hear their screams. They do not call me kinslayer, but it matters little. There is no need. I give myself the title in my thoughts and in my dreams._

_

* * *

_**Middle Earth  
Havens of Sirion  
First Age 538**

Erestor ran from room to room opening drawers and spilling their contents out upon the floor. He tore his bedroom apart, swearing by all the Valar that he would keep his possessions neatly ordered from this point on, if only he could find what he was looking for. They must have been listening, for in that moment, his eye was caught by a flash of silver from underneath the bed.

_There!_

Erestor dropped to his knees and pulled a silver case out from under the mattress. He jumped to his feet and ran down the hall hoping he was not too late. He arrived just in time to see his father heading for the door.

"I found them!" Erestor rushed to his father's side and handed him the case.

Thandion opened it, and stowed the elegantly crafted blades while his wife fastened his cloak. Erestor watched his parents, feeling with every breath and movement the tension and fear emanating from their forms. The scouts had raised the alarm less than half an hour ago and word had spread like wildfire through the countryside. The Fëanorions were on the move.

Thandion had returned home at once to retrieve his armor and weapons and to send his loved ones south to the docks. There was only one problem – his son was refusing to obey.

"I want to go with you," Erestor said for what must have been the tenth time since his father returned home.

Thandion shook his head. He was in no mood to continue the argument. "Your desires are irrelevant. You will do as I say."

Anger rose in Erestor. He would not allow his father to ignore his position. Not now. "I am not a coward," he said. _Only cowards run from danger, _he thought, _or so the poets say. _

Thandion read in his son's eyes what he had left unspoken. "I never said you were."

"I can fight!" Erestor cried. Had he not been training for this day?

"I know you can," Thandion replied. But it was to defend against Morgoth's creatures – not elves – that he had taught his son to fight. The slaying of kin was another matter entirely. It was a horror not unknown to Thandion, who had marched with the host of Fingolfin when the Noldor fled Aman. When they reached the city of Alqualondë the battle was well under way – Fëanor's doing, and his sons' – and Fingolfin's people rushed to defend them. _What fools we were to think them innocent! And now I go to slay those I once fought to protect! _

Thandion would spare his child the horror of spilling elven blood. He would send his son away.

"I am not a child," Erestor added boldly, oblivious to his father's thoughts and fears. "The decision is mine to make." And so it was, at one hundred and seventy-four years of age.

_Not a child, indeed! _Erestor's stubbornness was too much for Thandion to bear at present. Were it not for the fear blossoming in his heart, he might have spoken more kindly to his son, done more to explain the nightmare about to descend upon the people of Sirion, but there was no time. "You are _my__ son,_" he said, "and the decision has been made. You will go to Balar with your mother."

"Adar."

"Enough!" Thandion shouted.

Erestor withdrew a step on instinct. Thandion had never raised his voice before – not to him, anyway. It was enough to stun Erestor into silence. His father's eyes flashed with anger, and though it was not so, Erestor believed himself to be the cause. He turned away, pained by Thandion's lack of faith in him.

Alassë had remained silent all the while father and son had argued, but now she came to Erestor's side and took up his hand. She understood his desire to prove himself in his father's eyes. She understood, too, Thandion's fear – that he might on this very day lose those most precious to him.

"Erestor," she said softly. "Listen to your father. Come with me." Her eyes pleaded with him to obey.

Erestor saw a great and terrible fear in his mother's eyes and he drew her close, into his arms, as she had done with him so many times before.

Alassë held him fast, and resting her head upon his chest, she whispered, "Please, Erestor, do not abandon me. I could not bear losing you both."

Thandion knew his wife's words had reached their son for he saw Erestor's resolve shatter. He would not abandon his mother to danger. He would take her to safety across the sea.

Thandion approached his wife and son and embraced them awkwardly, as his armor made it difficult to hold them close. He had not wished to part with his son in anger, but there was no time for debate. Thandion released his wife and son and stepped away so he could look Erestor in the eye. "You must go now," he said, meaningfully, "before they cut off the road to the docks."

Erestor, meeting his father's gaze, shook his head in confusion. The docks were in the opposite direction as Eärendil's castle. The Fëanorions were after Lady Elwing, and the Silmaril she wore. What interest could they have in the docks? "Why would they attack the docks?" he asked.

"So none may alert Círdan and Gil-galad," Thandion replied. Not that sending for reinforcements would make a difference. It was many days journey to and from the Isle of Balar. Help would not arrive in time.

"Go now, and watch over your mother," Thandion said to his son. Then he turned to his wife. "I will find you in Balar," he told her.

Alassë's eyes brimmed with tears. "Come back to us," she said.

Thandion took her in his arms once more and held her while she wept. Then he kissed his beloved goodbye.

* * *

The docks were many miles south of Eärendil's fortress. The road was packed with elves fleeing the city and surrounding countryside – mostly ellith and young children, but also warriors sent to protect them, for Thandion had been correct. Fëanorion forces were sent south to cut off the road to the docks, but Erestor, his mother and many elves from the outlying villages reached the ships before the approaching army could block their path. The rest were not so lucky. The mass of refugees dwindled behind them and the very last brought word of enemy forces encircling the city.

The first elf Erestor met when they reached the docks was Hebion, a close friend of his father. He and the other warriors helped the sailors load the ships. Once full, the ships set sail down the river, leaving danger and destruction and loved ones behind. A day or more it would take to reach the island if the winds were with them, and the fleeing masses wasted no time.

Alassë stood aside, waiting for her son to join her. He had gone off to assist Hebion and the others prepare the ships. When the last of the ships began loading Erestor came to his mother. He took her arm. He led her to the ship and boarded with her, before turning back to the dock.

"Erestor!" Alassë grabbed his arm, seeing in her son's eyes his intention to remain behind. "Where are you going?"

"I am returning with Hebion and the others," Erestor replied.

Alassë shook her head, her grip on his arm tightening. "Your father…"

"I know what he said," Erestor replied, "but you will be safe now."

"He wants _you_ to be safe!" Alassë cried. "Why do you think he sent you with me?" She could not stop the tears from falling.

"I know, but I have to go back. I have to help him." Erestor hugged his mother for what he knew might be the last time. Her tears soaked his collar. "I love you," he whispered, and kissed her. Then he turned and leapt from the ship deck to the dock. He heard his mother cry out to him, but he did not look back.

* * *

Hebion gathered the warriors to him. Most were quite young, a century or two old with a few border skirmishes behind them. Only a handful had experienced this type of battle before – in Doriath or Valinor. Those needed no warning. But the young ones … Hebion had no words for the horrors they were about to face. He needed to find them. He could not lead these children back to the city without a word or two of … _something_.

His eyes fell on Erestor. He had seen Thandion's son spar before. The young one was skilled, very skilled, but would he waver when faced with this new enemy? Hebion needed to prepare him, to prepare them all for what was to come.

"You are not ready for this battle," he said to Erestor and the young ellyn at his side.

Their faces fell. A low grumbling, the beginnings of protests were silenced by Hebion's hand.

"You have learnt the art of sword and bow, but this day…" He shook his head. "No amount of training could have prepared you for this day." His eyes swept from one ellon to the next, imploring them to hear his words. Their attention captured, he drew his sword and advanced on Erestor. He pointed the tip of the blade at the young one's heart. "Remember, when you take down an enemy you must be sure he will not rise again."

Erestor swallowed hard – and nodded.

Hebion's focus shifted to the next ellon. He was a bit older than Erestor, but of no greater experience or skill. "We die as easily as Morgoth's beasts," Hebion said to him. "The throat. The heart. The stomach." He slashed at each in turn. "No elf can fight with his organs spilled upon the ground."

This one quavered but a moment.

Hebion lowered his sword and turned. He met a third ellon's eyes and held them. "If you survive this battle, you will relive it again – in waking dreams and nightmares. It will haunt you all the days of your life."

The ellon's gaze fell to the grass beneath his feet. He breathed deeply, once, twice, and looked up again.

Hebion noted the effect his words had on the young ones' faces. They were ashen, pale – the faces of the innocent. And Hebion longed for them to remain so. "None will think ill of you, if you choose to stand aside," he told them.

"But we will think ill of ourselves," Erestor whispered. His words echoed the thoughts of the rest.

A long silence followed this speech and Hebion waited. He waited for decisions to be made, for uncertainty to pass. And it did. The young ones stood firm. They had chosen their paths and he would not try to dissuade them. He only prayed that the Valar would be merciful, and watch over them all.

"Well then, if you are certain …" He pulled a map from his pocket. "… then gather round."

* * *

They did not take the road back to the city. Instead Hebion led them east and then northward through the woods so that they might approach the gates of the city from behind enemy lines. They could see smoke rising in the distance, even through the shadow of the trees. It did not bode well for the fate of the city.

They knew they had followed the right course when they came upon the first fruits of the siege – bodies of the dead – strewn across the forest floor. Erestor had seen death before, but never so much of it at once. And on those few occasions, the dead were always accompanied by three times as many orcs. But the elves that lay broken and twisted on the forest floor were not felled by servants of Morgoth. Two of the dead wore armor of an unfamiliar design. Their breastplates bore the crest of the House of Fëanor. And for the briefest of moments Erestor was gladdened to see it, to know that his kinsman had taken these murderers with them to their graves. Guilt rose in him for feeding such thoughts, and he tried to banish them, but they could not be so easily dismissed.

They moved on, leaving the dead behind with a prayer and a promise to return for them. They tread silently amid the trees, more cautious now than before and they arrived near to the gates amid confusion. Hebion's warriors came upon their own forces, not those of the enemy as they had expected. Sirion's defenders now fought to enter the city. The Fëanorion forces were already inside. There was only a moment's pause before Hebion drew his sword and plunged into the fray and the others followed him.

The first elf Erestor faced could have been a blood cousin. He was young as well, with hair as dark and skin as pale. But unlike Erestor, this ellon's eyes showed no fear, no hesitation. He swung at Erestor's throat with mortal precision and Erestor, by luck or instinct, countered. It took only a few seconds for Erestor to realize he would win the fight, for his skill was greater than his opponent's. He took the elf down with a cut to his leg. It was not a mortal wound and as he fell the ellon swung his blade wildly, catching Erestor across the chest with a light graze. He hissed in pain and surprise and with a booted foot kicked his enemy in the head, knocking him out. Another enemy fell upon him, and yet another. Erestor did what he could to spare their lives, despite Hebion's warning. _Be sure they cannot rise again_, he had said, not be sure to kill them.

Erestor and his comrades inched their way closer to the heart of the battle as one by one their enemies fell. It was when Erestor was within sight of the gate that he marked a familiar face. Thandion's armor would have shone in the sunlight, were it not for the blood and filth that marred its surface. Erestor fought hard to reach his father's side but there was too much distance between them.

Suddenly, a voice cried out above the din. "They have the Lady's sons! Stop them!"

But it was too late. A band of warriors on horseback charged through the gate. No archer dared fire on them for fear of hitting the children. And for that same reason, no swordsman would strike at the Fëanorions who bore Elrond and Elros away. The company rode down the elves who stood in their path, both friend and foe alike. And when the dark rider holding Elros passed, he brought his sword down on Thandion, cleaving the weak space of his armor between his shoulder and his neck.

"No!" Erestor shouted as he watched his father crumple to the ground. Without thought for Elros's safety, he drew a dagger and threw it at the ellon who carried him away. The knife struck the warrior's shoulder, causing him to drop his sword.

One of his companions shouted, "Maglor!"

But the rider had already recovered. He tore the blade from his armor as he spurred his horse onward. The Fëanorions broke free of the fray, their guards following a few paces behind, and they rode swiftly out of sight.

Erestor could do nothing to stop them. But as he stood there watching his father's murderer vanish into the wood his shock and anger transformed into hate. It wormed its way into his heart, burning away any last trace of fear and compassion. Only one thought echoed in his mind. _They will pay._ And they did. He cut their warriors down, one by one, on his way to his father's side. No maiming, no mercy – death was what he gave them. He repeated Hebion's words again and again under his breath. _The throat. The heart. The stomach._ He cut them down, and they would never rise again.

When he reached Thandion's side, Erestor fell to his knees. "Father!" he cried, and lifted Thandion into his arms. But his father was gone. His wide, lifeless eyes stared into nothingness and Erestor closed them. He sat there for a time, thinking he should cry. _Yes, tears in this moment would be fitting._ But none came, for he felt nothing as he sat holding his father's corpse, nothing at all. And after what might have been an eternity, but was in truth mere moments, Erestor lifted his gaze from his father's face. With a blank expression he watched the Fëanorion forces retreat into the woods. The sounds of swords clashing faded into memory. It was over. There was nothing left to fight for.

Erestor laid his father down upon the ground. He did not pick up his sword when he stood, nor did he enter the fortress gate. He headed for the river. His only thought was to reach the water, to wash the blood off his face and hands. He did not spare the dead and dying a single glance. He reached the river and found the banks and the water by its shores littered with the bodies of the dead. He knelt at the river's edge, seeing in its reflection a sight more terrible than any he had witnessed this day. Who was this ellon who stared back at him, this creature drenched in blood, with cold, unfeeling eyes?

_It cannot be me._

Erestor stared into the water, unmoving, and there he might have remained until his soul broke loose of its shackles and was freed from the world. He might have faded right there by the river, if a cry had not moved him first. It was not the noise of the dying, for he had long before blocked that out. It was the sound of a child wailing, coming from somewhere nearby.

Erestor tore his gaze from the river and swept it across the sands, seeking its source – a small out building a hundred or so feet away. He rose from the sand, and upon reaching the door, he looked inside.

"Nana!" the child wailed over its mother's corpse.

Erestor had not known an elf could make such a terrible sound. Its screams touched his soul, bringing him back to life. He took a step inside, but his appearance frightened the child even more. He crawled away from Erestor, screaming as he did. Erestor could only imagine the horrifying vision he was to the frightened boy.

He dropped to his knees, so that he might speak to the babe on even ground. "Hush," he said. "I will not hurt you. You are safe now."

The child stopped its screaming, recognizing in Erestor's voice the truth of it, but he continued to cry.

Erestor inched closer and reached out his hands – slowly – and drew the child against his chest. He rocked the boy and hummed a little tune so he would know he was safe. With his free hand, Erestor pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around the boy like a blanket, covering his face, shielding him from the horrors of the battle and from Erestor's own blood-splattered face.

He lifted the tiny bundle into his arms, all the while whispering, "Just close your eyes. Close your eyes."

Would that Erestor could do the same.

* * *

_**A/N:** __I'm dedicating this story to my mother-in-law who died of leukemia on 1/4/09. May she continue to be an inspiration to me in all things. _


	15. Songbird

**Chapter 15 – Songbird**

_My father gave his consent – such as it was. He allowed me to work with Maglor. And yet he was troubled. He wore a dark expression as we sat together late into the night and still the next morning. I could tell he had something more to confess, but for whatever reason remained silent. It was not until we neared the king's audience chamber that he chose to speak.  
_

"_If he ever hurts you, I'll kill him."_

_That was what he said to me. It was a simple truth. And he had surely known it from the first time he saw Maglor and I together on the ship. "I know," I replied, and afterward, I sensed a great burden had been lifted from his heart. _

_He pulled me into his arms. He kissed the top of my head, and then he whispered, "Be sure Maglor knows it, too."  
__

* * *

_**Valinor  
Fourth Age**

It cannot be said that Maglor went out of his way to upset her. It was not out of his way at all. The truth of the matter was, he had consciously kept his temper at bay during their previous encounters. He made no effort to do so now. Maglor wanted no assistance and when Eruanna appeared at his door he went straight to Fingolfin to tell him so. But the king would not listen, and so Maglor did the only thing he could do – he turned his frustrated rage on Eruanna in hopes of driving her away. For months Eruanna endured Maglor's ill moods and day by day their intensity increased. No one knew the cruel way in which he spoke to her or the days and nights she worked without rest. No one knew because Eruanna revealed nothing when asked how she fared. And Maglor never raised his voice or uttered an unkind word where others could hear.

By the time two seasons had passed, however, it seemed to Eruanna that a kind of madness had overtaken him. It reached the point where anything she did or said provoked his wrath. She knew he was trying to drive her away and she would not let him. She would not tuck tail and run. She had made a promise to help him, and every flash of anger, every cruel insult was further proof of the pain and anger devouring him from the inside, proof that _someone _needed to help him.

Unfortunately, none of this made enduring Maglor's fury any easier.

One thought alone comforted Eruanna as the weeks passed, _'He can not keep this up forever.' _She knew he could not. She _prayed_ he could not. Every elf had his breaking point, and Maglor, too, would eventually crack under the strain. Something would push him over the edge – a sight, a sound, a memory. There was no telling what the trigger might be. Eruanna merely prayed it would find him quickly. There was only so much more she could take.

Eruanna handed Maglor a stack of contracts to review before she broke for lunch.

"What are these?" he asked gruffly.

"Land allocations for the northern province," she replied.

He picked up the stack and practically threw them back at her. "The northern province? Where are the contracts for the city proper?"

"They are next on my list," she replied.

"Why did you not finish the city accounts first?" he snapped.

Eruanna knew by his tone that there was no answer she could give that would please him. She took a breath and tried anyway. "You told me you wanted the appraisals completed this week – you did not specify any particular order."

His eyes narrowed and he looked upon her as a hawk would a field mouse. "And _how_ do you expect to know how many new domiciles will be needed in the north, if you have not completed the inventory of open dwellings in Tirion!"

Eruanna swallowed hard. He was yelling at her again. When she first began working with Maglor, he barely spoke to her. Now he made it a regular habit to raise his voice. She knew there was no use explaining to him that she had started with those _requesting _dwellings in the north, so she could concentrate her efforts on placing families in Tirion.

She bit her tongue.

"An orc could do a better job of this than you," he growled as he rose from his seat. "I expect the city tallies on my desk by tomorrow morning!"

Eruanna started to protest. "It will take all night," she said, but Maglor cut her off.

"Then you had better get back to work. I will have your meals sent up." He left the room and slammed the door.

Eruanna collapsed into her chair and rested her head in her hands. Despite her best efforts, she could not stop the tears from falling.

* * *

Eruanna was startled by a knock at the door. No one came to call on Maglor, save for the king, and he did so only rarely. No one else would seek out Eruanna here. The only other possibility was that it was one of the kitchen staff with her meal. She laid down her quill and straightened herself before answering. "Come!"

The door opened and a tall ellon with dark red hair and a trimmed beard stepped inside. "Oh," he said, as his eyes fell on Eruanna. "I am sorry. I thought this was Makalaurë's office."

"It is," she replied. "I am his assistant. Can I help you?"

The ellon seemed to consider her question, before answering it with another. "Do you know when Makalaurë will return?"

It was an odd question for two reasons – the first being that Eruanna had never before heard anyone call Maglor by his Quenyan name, and the second, that this stranger had foregone the use of 'lord' or 'prince' in reference to Maglor. Eruanna suspected she knew the why of it. Though he had not offered her his name, there were not many elves of the Noldor with facial hair and locks so distinct in color – none who would call on Maglor, at any rate, or speak of him in so familiar a way.

She glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. "Prince Maglor takes his midday meal with the king. He will return shortly, if you wish to wait. If not, I can relay a message to him."

The ellon smiled kindly upon her. "I think I will wait, then, if it is not too much trouble."

"As you wish," she replied. "You may take a seat, there, if you like." She pointed to an elegant and seldom used chair before Maglor's desk.

"Thank you," he said, but did not sit. Instead he made his way around the room, perusing the sculptures, the books and artwork decorating the walls. When he reached her desk he turned his attention on her, and it made Eruanna uncomfortable. She was well aware that her eyes showed signs of her earlier upset.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked without looking up.

The ellon frowned. "I was about to ask you the same question."

"I'm fine," Eruanna replied, but she was certain her guest was not convinced. He continued to watch her and Eruanna grew nervous under his steady gaze. She invented an excuse to rise from her desk and flee to the adjoining room where the files she and Maglor handled were archived.

The ellon followed her to the doorway. He leaned against the frame and watched her as she pretended to search for something in the stacks. "How is it you came to work with Makalaurë?" he asked. "I was under the impression that most in the palace do their best to avoid him. Did you draw the short straw?"

Eruanna laughed at his question. "Not quite," she said. "The king asked me if I would work with Maglor … and I said yes." She pulled a book off the shelf.

"Thinking better of that decision now, though," he said as she passed him.

Eruanna frowned before she could stop herself. She hated when others read her so easily. "Maybe," she said, "a little." Eruanna returned to her seat. She could feel the ellon's eyes still upon her and dared not lift hers from her desk.

He spoke again, after a time, words Eruanna was not expecting to hear. "He had a gentle soul, in his youth, like his mother. I would imagine he keeps it well guarded these days, behind walls of fire and ice, if it has not been destroyed completely."

Eruanna lifted her eyes to find the ellon staring out the window, though she doubted the garden was where his attentions lie. "You seem to know a lot about Maglor," Eruanna said.

"I did … once," he replied and took a seat on the sill.

A companionable silence fell between them and Eruanna returned to her work. She managed to complete three contracts by one hour after noon. It was on her third trip to the archive that Maglor returned. She heard the door open and rushed back to the office in hopes of avoiding his wrath. She reached the doorway just as he stepped inside.

Maglor was about to call for Eruanna, but when he spotted the ellon sitting behind his desk, he went mute.

"Hello Makalaurë," the ellon said and smiled.

Maglor blinked as if he thought his eyes deceived him. When he realized they had not, he withdrew a step, preparing himself for a quick retreat. "Grandfather," he whispered.

Mahtan rose from his seat. "It has been a long time, child," he said. "I have missed you."

Maglor said nothing, merely continued to stare at his grandfather with what Eruanna could only describe as abject terror. Mahtan stepped forward, drew a letter from his pocket, and held it out to Maglor. "I bring word from one who has waited long for your return."

Maglor looked down at the letter but did not reach for it. He seemed to choke on the air. He began to tremble. He closed his eyes.

Mahtan closed the distance between them so he stood a mere arm's length away. He reached out a hand to Maglor and touched the side of his face as if to wake him. "Will you not speak to me, songbird?"

A strangled sob rent the air in answer to Mahtan's plea. Maglor lifted his hands to shield his face, but nothing could hold back the tide rising up to drown him. He gasped for breath before his knees gave way.

Mahtan caught his grandson in his arms a second before he fell. He lowered Maglor to the ground and held him as he wept for the first time in thousands of years. "Let go, child," he whispered, "let go."

Eruanna witnessed this scene from the doorway of the adjoining room. She had no choice. There was only one way out of Maglor's study and that was through the front door. Eruanna didn't know what Maglor would do if she revealed her presence now, but she knew it was wrong to remain hidden. She entered the room and crossed it quietly. Her eyes met Mahtan's briefly as she passed, but Maglor continued to weep in his grandfather's arms and took no notice of her as she slipped past him and out the door.


	16. Family Conversations

**Chapter 16 – Family Conversations**

_Family is a blessing when you need a shoulder to cry on, or a swift kick in the backside.  


* * *

_**Valinor  
Fourth Age**

They sat together on the floor. Maglor, with his knees drawn to his chin, Mahtan beside him, rubbing his grandson's back in small, circular motions. They did not speak, merely sat together in silence. Maglor's tears were spent. He had no idea how many he shed, but by the look of his grandfather's shirt, quite a few. His breathing was yet uneven as he rested with his head on his knees. He did not look at his grandfather. He couldn't. The shame was too great, for although Fëanor sired him, and he bore Finwë's name, it was Mahtan who had played the role of father to Maglor. Instead of facing Mahtan he stared at the door, imagining the whispers and sneers he would endure when the palace residents learned of this scene.

Mahtan followed the direction of his grandson's eyes and read Maglor's thoughts as if he had uttered them aloud. "She will not tell anyone," he said.

Maglor was startled by the sound of Mahtan's voice, but he recovered quickly. "How do you know?" he asked. This was probably the very thing she had been waiting for. What better revenge for the way he treated her, than to reveal what she had seen?

"If she tells no one you mistreat her," Mahtan replied, "she will not speak of this."

Maglor started to speak. To defend himself – _or not_ – but Mahtan raised a hand to silence him.

"She said nothing to me," he said. "She did not have to. Her eyes told me all I needed to know."

Maglor should have known. He could tell by the look on her face when he departed that she was going to cry. She never broke down in front of him, though. She was too proud to let him see her cry and too strong to be defeated by words alone. _Pride and strength._ As far as Maglor was concerned, they were two of her less endearing qualities.

"Fingolfin cursed me with her," he muttered angrily.

Mahtan laughed at the sour face Maglor made. "I think you have that backwards, Makalaurë."

The sound of his former name made him cringe. "Maglor," he stated firmly, and in a whisper, added, "please."

"As you wish," Mahtan said, and then he looked Maglor straight in the eye. "I think you owe the child an apology."

Maglor laughed humorlessly. "You have no idea."

"You would be surprised," was Mahtan's reply. "The king has been watching you both closely."

"Has he?" Maglor's ignorance was feigned and his grandfather saw right through it.

"You know he has," Mahtan's voice was sharp. He would not allow Maglor to play games. Not with him.

Maglor sighed. He was well aware of the watchful eyes upon them. Indeed, he had hoped Eruanna's behavior would alert his uncle to trouble, and the elleth would be removed from his service. It did not happen. He cursed Eruanna silently for being so fine an actor. "I had hoped to change his mind … or hers."

"You came close," Mahtan said. "The king and his grandson were debating how much longer they would permit this to go on."

Maglor could not contain his surprise at his grandfather's words. "They know?" he asked. He had thought his efforts were in vain.

"They know _you_, Maglor," Mahtan answered. "You gave in too easily. Fingolfin suspected you would make life hard for the child so she would quit of her own accord. So they kept watch – and the strain of her working with you was beginning to show. They would not have allowed your ill treatment of her to continue for much longer."

Many thoughts cluttered Maglor's mind as he listened to his grandfather speak. Part of him was angry he had been waited out by a_ child_. There was a time when he had been the patient one. He had met his match in patience with Eruanna. It was yet another thing he disliked about her.

Maglor pushed thoughts of his scribe from his mind and concentrated on his grandfather. Mahtan seemed to know quite a lot about the goings on in Tirion for an ellon who lived in the country. He eyed Mahtan warily, suspicious of his intentions for the first time. Was he here at Fingolfin's request? Was that the only reason Mahtan had come to see him? "You have spoken with my uncle at length, it would seem, and yet Fingolfin made no mention of your visit earlier."

"I told him I wanted to surprise you," he said.

"Why was that?" Maglor asked.

Mahtan heard well the suspicion in his grandson's voice. He laid a firm hand on his shoulder before he answered, "So you would not have the chance to hide from me."

Maglor said nothing in response, for there was nothing to say. A long time ago, Mahtan knew Maglor very well – and it appeared that in some respects he still did. Of all the elves in Arda there were only two he truly dreaded to face. Mahtan was one of them. And as for the other …

Maglor glanced at the letter his grandfather had carried. It lay forgotten on the floor. _Almost_ forgotten, that is.

Mahtan followed his grandson's gaze. He picked up the letter and tucked it into his pocket. "I think we should continue this somewhere more comfortable," he said.

"I am in my old rooms," Maglor offered.

Mahtan nodded before climbing to his feet. He held out his hand to his grandson and when Maglor took it, the older ellon pulled him up. Then Mahtan threw an arm around his grandson's shoulder and led him to the door. "I don't know about you," he said to Maglor, "but I could use a drink."

* * *

Eruanna did not return to Maglor's office for several hours. Before she entered, she listened at the door for any sign of movement from within. When she thought it safe, she opened the door, only to find that Maglor and his grandfather were gone. A wave of relief washed over her. She moved swiftly to her desk and began organizing the files Maglor told her to complete. She had no idea what mood he would be in come sunrise, and she wished to give him no excuse to rip her to shreds. She worked all night without rest, but in the early hours, just before dawn, Eruanna rested her head in the crook of her arm. She closed her eyes for only a moment – and fell fast asleep.

That was how Maglor found her, asleep at her desk, her head cradled in her arms. There were orderly stacks of paper all around her and three incomplete contracts beneath her head. He watched her sleep for a long time. It had been awhile since he had witnessed this strange sight. Elrond and Elros had slept thus, with their eyes shut. He remembered. He also remembered how much they slept, compared to elves. It had worried him in the beginning. He had thought them ill or on the verge of fading. It was some time before he realized it was merely their natural state, their natural state – and _hers_. Eruanna had worked late the previous evening and all night last and she had finally collapsed from exhaustion. He wanted to be angry with her for complying with his unreasonable demands, but the only anger he felt was for himself.

_Why have I done this?_

There was no answer he could come up with to justify his actions. All he could do now was attempt to make things right. He laid a hand on Eruanna's shoulder and shook her gently. "Eruanna, wake up."

Eruanna bolted upward at the sound of his voice and rubbed her eyes. "What?"

Maglor withdrew his hand and watched the cloud lift from the elleth's eyes. "You fell asleep at your desk," he told her.

She looked down at the desktop. "The city … I have three more," she gathered the scattered forms and began to organize them into a neat pile, but Maglor reached down and pulled them gently from her hands.

"Go to bed," he said.

"What?" she looked up at him, unsure of what he had just said.

"I will complete the contracts," he said. "You need to rest. I will see you tomorrow morning."

Eruanna gaped at Maglor as if he had sprouted another head. "You are certain?" she asked at last.

"Yes," he replied but said no more. He merely walked across the room and sat at his desk.

Eruanna climbed to her feet and with a nod left Maglor's study for her rooms. She was still groggy as she navigated the palace halls and her only thought was of how wonderful her feather pillow would feel beneath her head.

* * *

Less than an hour before dinner a knock at Maglor's door drew his attention. He did not have to ask who it was. Fingolfin's knock was distinctive. "Come in," he called a second after his uncle opened the door.

The king stepped inside followed by his brother. Maglor groaned. It was never a good sign when Fingolfin brought reinforcements.

"Good evening, nephew," Fingolfin said with a smile. "I hope you fare well on this fine day."

"I fare well," he replied flatly.

"I am pleased to hear it," Fingolfin replied.

Finarfin's keen eyes scanned the room. "Where is your assistant?" he asked.

Maglor sighed. He knew this visit wasn't about him. "I gave her the day off," he replied.

"That was kind of you," Fingolfin responded as he sat himself on the corner of Maglor's desk.

"No," Maglor replied, "it wasn't." He did not look up at Fingolfin when he said this for he knew his uncle's choice of seating was an intentional display of authority.

"What do you mean?" Finarfin asked, surprised that Maglor would choose to ignore the opportunity to show how kind he was to Eruanna.

Maglor dropped the quill he had been holding and leaned back in his chair to face Finarfin. "It was not kind," he said, "because _I _was the reason she needed the day. I had her work two days and nights without rest until she could not keep her eyes open."

"You do not sound proud of this achievement," Finarfin replied.

Maglor breathed a tired sigh. "Should I be?" he asked.

"Of course not," Fingolfin interrupted and Maglor looked up at him for the first time. "So then, why did you do it?"

Maglor had no answer, instead he replied, "You could have _asked _before assigning her to assist me."

"Would you have accepted her assistance?" Fingolfin asked.

"Not likely," Maglor said.

"Then it was better we did not ask you," Finarfin quipped before he took a seat in the chair opposite Maglor.

Maglor's brow shot up at his younger uncle. "In on this, were you?"

Finarfin smiled. "It was his idea," he said, pointing to his brother, "but I helped."

Finarfin's attempt at humor failed for Maglor was not amused.

Fingolfin studied Maglor in silence. He could see in his nephew's face that something had changed, and though he did not know the details, he attributed it to Mahtan's visit. If only the old ellon had come to Tirion sooner!

Maglor felt Fingolfin's eyes upon him. He braced himself for the next round of ribbing.

Fingolfin sighed. "You never were one to ask for help when you needed it," he said.

Maglor said nothing, for his uncle was right.

The king fixed Maglor with a stern gaze. The time for games was over. Maglor needed to accept it – _now_. "Eruanna is very dear to a son of my house. I trust you will treat her respectfully from this point on."

"Elrond," Maglor whispered. And then he asked a question that had gnawed at him for many months. "Did he protest her assignment?" he asked Fingolfin.

Finarfin chuckled. "No," he said. "He recommended her."

"Did he?" Maglor asked, surprised that Elrond would place such trust in him after all that had passed between them.

"Her father was not very happy about it," Fingolfin added, interrupting Maglor's thoughts.

"I imagine not," Maglor replied. He and Lord Erestor had never been formally introduced, but Maglor remembered him well. He had caught Erestor's hateful gaze more than once as he walked the palace halls and had not forgotten the ellon's words to him on the ship.

Fingolfin, too, thought on Erestor. His reaction to the thought of his daughter working with Maglor had been volatile. "He raised his voice to me," Fingolfin said. "He told me I should not expect anyone to forgive you."

Maglor laughed, humorlessly. "A wise ellon," he said.

"I do not agree with him," Fingolfin said firmly.

Maglor shook his head at the king and sneered. "Your judgment has not always been commendable."

Fingolfin closed his eyes and breathed a tired sigh. He was about to say something more when a knock at the door drew his attention.

Maglor could not imagine who might be calling on him now, for Mahtan was at the market and the only other elves who might do so were with him now.

"Come," Maglor called.

Eruanna opened the door. She had heard muffled voices when she drew near but could not make them out and was surprised to see both the king and Prince Finarfin in Maglor's company.

She bowed respectfully to both ellyn before speaking. "I am sorry if I interrupted you," she said. "I can wait outside if you wish."

Fingolfin rose from his seat, waving her concern away. "There is no need, Eruanna. We were just leaving." Finarfin followed his brother's lead and both ellyn bid their farewells to Maglor before heading for the door.

Eruanna smiled as they passed and she closed the door behind them. It was something of a surreal experience for Eruanna – closing a door for the sons of Finwë. It struck her sometimes, at odd moments, how strange and incredible it was to live in the same halls as elves of so high renown.

"They are quite impressive," she mused aloud, her hands still clutching the door handle. "They live up to their reputations … what I've heard of them."

"They are great ellyn," Maglor said dryly. "They always were, but my father's shadow eclipsed us all."

Eruanna looked at Maglor then. He seemed calmer now, more subdued than he had been in months. And so she dared to ask, "Did it anger them?"

Maglor considered her question a moment before saying, "I don't believe so. They loved my father, but Fëanor could not find it in his heart to forgive them."

"Forgive them for what?" she asked.

Maglor shrugged. "For being born." He looked at Eruanna then, as if he only just realized she had arrived. "I owe you an apology," he said, "more than one."

Eruanna agreed heartily, but she did not think saying so would be the best response. "I do not want an apology," she said, "if the king forces you to give it."

"He does not," Maglor replied. And slowly, he gave voice to his thoughts. "I have been unkind to you. It was wrong and I … I _am_ sorry."

Eruanna nodded. "Then I accept your apology and we shall leave it at that."

Maglor's expression was one of disbelief. "Just like that?" he said. "I almost feel cheated."

Eruanna did not know what to make of Maglor's last comment. "What is your meaning?"

Maglor shook his head. "I expected you to berate me, at least. Have you not been waiting to tell me how cruel and unfair I have been?"

Eruanna huffed. "Why would I waste my energies telling you what you already know?"

Maglor laughed in response and the humor almost reached his eyes. "I see your point," he said. Then he eyed her curiously. "So, you will not be quitting anytime soon?"

"No," Eruanna replied firmly.

"No, I did not imagine so." Maglor paused a moment, before adding, "I do, however, recall giving you the day off. Why are you here?"

Eruanna merely shrugged. "I only wished to be sure there was nothing you needed."

That simple answer hurt Maglor more than angry words ever could. For as long as he remembered no one cared what he needed, or went out of their way to find out. And now this child, whom he had treated so terribly, stood there, concerned for his needs. It made him ill.

Maglor closed his eyes briefly, then opened them before he answered, "I need nothing … thank you."

Eruanna nodded and was about to open the door when temptation got the better of her. Before she was his assistant, Maglor had, on a few occasions, answered her questions. She wondered if he would do so now and decided to press her luck. "May I ask you something?"

Maglor laughed, and this time there was humor in his eyes. "I should have known. Maybe I had better continue being rude to you. I have lived free of your questioning for many months."

Eruanna smiled. "You can think of it as debt repayment, if you like."

Her clever suggestion amused him and he relented. "Very well," he replied. "What is your question?"

She glanced back at the door, thinking on the current and former kings. "I was only wondering … Finarfin was High King of the Noldor in Valinor for two ages before his brother was reborn. And with Fingolfin's past…" She paused. "He drew blood in the first kinslaying and fled to Middle-earth against the Valar's wishes. But Finarfin remained loyal to the Valar and ruled wisely for many years, and yet …" She shook her head in confusion. "I don't understand. Why did Finarfin hand the kingship over to his brother?"

Maglor rested his chin on his hands as he considered Eruanna's question. He knew the change in leadership had been a topic of much debate after Fingolfin was reborn. There were arguments made for and against why either brother should reign. But in the end, it was not the councils or the courts that decided the answer – it was the brothers, themselves. _Why was Fingolfin king?_ Maglor knew the answer. For like Finarfin, Maglor, too, had been King of the Noldor for a time. And also like his uncle, Maglor had been more than happy to hand the crown over when the chance came.

Why was Fingolfin king? To Maglor, the answer was simple. "Not all who are made king wish to wear the crown."

* * *

**_A/N:_**_ You need to read the companion piece, _**_35 Years of the Sun_**_, before reading the next chapter. It's written from Maglor's older brother's point of view and will have bearing on future chapters. _

_I'm on a roll. _


	17. Brothers and Kings

**Chapter 17 - Brothers and Kings**

'_Maitimo will need you. Be his right arm, as you were mine.' _

_That is what my father said to me before he died.  


* * *

_**Middle Earth  
Age of Trees 4997**

Fëanor was gone, and now, so was Maedhros. In the span of a few weeks Maglor had become king. It was not a task he had ever imagined would fall to him, for the elves were immortal and death was a thing largely unheard of across the sea. But Maglor was fourth in line to kingship, and now that his fathers and brother were gone, it was he who wore the crown. The remaining sons of Fëanor were not all pleased with this turn of events.

Maglor knew he should not have been surprised, but still it angered him. This was his first command to them, and already his brothers were arguing.

"Father would not fall back!" Curufin shouted.

"I am not father," Maglor answered without raising his voice.

"Then you care not for the oath we swore," Caranthir accused of him.

Maglor glared at him, but continued to respond calmly. "The oath does not call on me to risk the lives of our people when we are yet vulnerable," he said. "An attack now would be the death of us all."

Celegorm spoke then, his voice leaden with scorn. "You think you know better than father, than Maitimo?"

Maglor rounded on Celegorm, his patience wearing thin. "_I _am still alive," Maglor answered pointedly, "and I told Maitimo it was a foolish plan to feign treat with Morgoth. He would not listen!"

"And yet he may still be alive, if Morgoth's messengers speak true," Celegorm said. "And you would leave him in torment!"

Maglor's anger boiled at his brother's accusation. "Maitimo is my brother, and I love him, but I cannot let that color my decision." He took a step closer to Celegorm. "A king must lead his people with his head, not his heart. That was father's folly."

"Or perhaps you care more for that crown than our brother's life," Curufin muttered.

That was the breaking point. Maglor had had enough of his brothers, and Curufin had taken the argument one step too far. Without so much as a warning, Maglor grabbed Curufin by his throat and slammed him into the tent pole. He held his younger brother fast, so that he struggled for breath. Neither Celegorm nor Caranthir moved to aid him, for they were stunned by their elder's actions. Never before had Maglor used physical violence against his brothers, and the sight was disturbing enough to cow them all.

"Have you something to say to me, Curufinwë?" Maglor hissed mere inches from his brother's face. Of all his brothers, Maglor trusted Curufin least. He was too much like their father for any great love to exist between them. And more importantly, Maglor knew that if he was to control Celegorm and Caranthir, he would need Curufin to submit first.

Curufin sputtered and Maglor loosened his grip so he could speak. "No," he gasped.

When Maglor was certain the defeat he saw in his brother's eyes was real, he released him and stepped away. "Good," Maglor barked. And then to the others, said, "Spread the word, we return to Mithrim, we need shelter and a place of strength from which to keep watch on our enemy." Curufin, Celegorm and Caranthir were not happy with the decision, but they obeyed his command.

After they departed, Maglor found himself alone with the Ambarussa. They had grown quiet since their father was killed and Maedhros taken. The pair were still very young by the measure of elves and had witnessed far too many horrors in a short span of time. They needed comfort and guidance, and Maglor was not certain he could offer them either. Still, he waited patiently for his youngest brothers to share their thoughts.

Amrod seated himself on a makeshift chair and Amras dropped to the floor beside him. They looked at each other briefly, before addressing Maglor.

"Maka," the two voices said in unison.

"Yes, Ambarussa," he replied.

"The Valar have truly forsaken us," Amrod said.

"Haven't they?" Amras completed.

Their question pained Maglor to the depths of his soul. He did not want to tell them the answer, or let it pass from his thoughts to the open air. But what could he say to them that would be a comfort? What did they need to hear? Maglor drew closer to his brothers. He laid one hand on Amrod's shoulder, and the other on Amras' head. "We do not need the Valar," he told them. "We have each other."

But the words sounded hollow, even to Maglor's ears.

* * *

**Middle Earth  
First Age 5**

Despite Fingon's warnings, Maglor was not prepared for the sight of his brother. He was barely able to recognize the frail, wraith-like form as Maedhros. He was a corpse, all bone and sinew with cheeks and eyes sunken in. His flaming red hair, once so thick and vibrant, had thinned. Matted locks hung dull and limp around his face. Maglor was afraid to touch him, afraid that if he did so the figure would crumble to dust. But he had to touch him, had to know this was real, that the creature Fingon carried back with him from Angband was truly his brother.

Maglor sat upon the bed. He peered down at Maedhros and caressed his face. Maedhros stirred. His eyes fluttered open, but it was a long time before he recognized Maglor's face.

"Makalaurë," Maedhros said. His voice was coarse like gravel.

Any doubt Maglor had of the elf's identity vanished instantly from his mind when those eyes locked with his. "I'm here," Maglor said.

"Where?" Maedhros asked.

Maglor stroked his brother's matted hair. "At Mithrim," he said. "Findekáno brought you back to us."

Maedhros' eyes clouded at that. "Findekáno?"

Maglor could see the confusion in his brother's eyes and it was cause for great concern. Fingon had spent the last few weeks caring for Maedhros. He carried him all the way from Angband to their fortress on the lake. How could Maedhros not remember? "Yes," he said slowly. "He crossed the Halcaraxë with his father's people. He went in search of you. He cut you down from the mountain. Do you not remember?"

Maedhros' eyes moved to the ceiling. The effort required to recall anything was immense. "I heard … singing," he said at last. He lifted his hands to his head in an effort to focus, only to find his right limb bandaged and a length short. "My hand," he said.

Maglor's breath caught in his throat. Fingon had warned him of how he had been forced to free Maedhros. "It was the only way he could free you," Maglor said.

Maedhros' gaze returned to his brother. His eyes were focused now, fixed upon some nearly forgotten memory. He shook his head, ever so slightly. "Not the only way," he said.

Maglor swallowed hard. Fingon had told him that part, too – how Maedhros had begged him to end his life. "Maitimo," Maglor began, but Maedhros interrupted him.

"How long?" he asked.

Maglor's eyes grew dark. The shame of the answer brought tears to his eyes. "Near thirty-five years of the sun," he replied.

Maedhros' gaze turned inward. He remembered the rock, the lines he had drawn to measure time's passing. "I lost count," he said.

Maglor continued to stroke his brother's hair as his tears fell. "It does not matter now," he said. "You are here, and we will make you whole again."

The haunted expression on Maedhros' face said otherwise. "Never whole," Maedhros said, "never again."

Maglor shut his eyes and shook his head. "Do not say such things," he replied forcefully. "You will be King of the Noldor again."

Maedhros lifted his left hand to his brother's cheek and wiped away his tears. "No," he said to Maglor.

Maglor, startled by the contact, opened his eyes to find his brother watching him. "Why, no?" he asked.

"Cannot be king," Maedhros replied.

"Why not?" Maglor asked again.

Maedhros breathed a tired sigh and closed his eyes before he whispered, "The mountain. Pieces of me ... remain ... on the mountain." The effort of speaking drained him, and with those words, Maedhros drifted off to sleep.

Maglor's grief overwhelmed him and he wept over his brother's ravaged body deep into the night. "Forgive me," he repeated time and again, but despite his cries, Maglor believed in his heart that no one, not Maedhros or Ilúvatar, nor any spirit or Vala, had the power to grant him absolution.

* * *

The mood at Fingolfin's coronation celebration was cautiously optimistic. It was not surprising that Fingolfin's people rejoiced more enthusiastically than those who maintained loyalty to the sons of Fëanor. Curufin and Caranthir were still furious. They had argued long with their elder brothers over the matter, believing that Celegorm should reign if Maedhros and Maglor were not up to the task. Celegorm, himself, said nothing, and that alone spoke of the depths of his rage.

An hour or so into the reception Maglor found himself alone with Fingolfin. His uncle had come upon him while he was keeping a furtive eye on Maedhros, who sat now, speaking with Fingon. They had renewed their friendship in the long months of Maedhros' recovery and after all that had passed, Maglor thought it a blessing to see their friendship blossom again.

Fingolfin followed Maglor's gaze to his brother. "How is he?" he asked.

Maglor hesitated with his answer. He did not wish to betray his brother's secrets. "You have spoken to him ... my king." The last he added as an afterthought. Calling another 'king' would take some getting used to.

"How _is_ he?" Fingolfin repeated. This time is was a command not a request, but the emotion in his uncle's voice told Maglor he asked out of concern.

Maglor watched his brother and Fingon laugh together. He could almost imagine the vision was one from their happy days in Valinor. _It was a lie._ They were not the same as before, Maedhros least of all. Maglor's older brother hid his pain well, too well, but it rose up time and again to consume him. Maedhros had told him more than once that there were pieces of himself he had lost forever, but Maglor had not wanted to believe him in the beginning. And yet, as time passed, Maglor began to realize the truth of it – Maedhros would never be whole again.

"He is ... shattered," Maglor answered after a time. "He could not keep the crown."

Fingolfin nodded. It was no less than Fingon had confided to him. "You could have kept it, Makalaurë," he said. "You ruled wisely in your brother's stead."

Maglor did not agree with either of his uncle's assertions. He shook his head. "Who will watch over Maitimo if I am king?"

Fingolfin heard all the many things Maglor left unspoken with that one question. He knew Maglor blamed himself for his brother's fate, and it was a burden Fingolfin did not believe his nephew should bear. He knew, also, that nothing he said would ease Maglor's pain, but he made the attempt anyway. "What happened to your brother is not your fault," he said.

Maglor laughed humorlessly in the face of his uncle and king. "There is no one else to blame," he said.

Fingolfin laid a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "There was no way you could have known he was alive or where to find him," he said.

Fingolfin spoke the truth of it, but it made Maglor's burden of guilt not one ounce lighter. "Findekáno did not wait for such knowledge," he replied.

Fingolfin glanced at Fingon instinctively. He had been furious when he learned his son set out for Angband without his knowledge. It had all ended well, but his heart still ached at the thought of losing his firstborn. "My son could just as easily have ended up in Morgoth's hands," he replied.

This truth, too, gave Maglor no comfort, for the dangers Fingon had faced should have been his. "It was my duty to save him," he said.

"No." Fingolfin's voice was firm. "As king, it was your duty to lead your people, to see to _their_ safety. A king does not risk the lives of thousands for one ellon."

Maglor exhaled deeply. "I know," he said, his gaze falling once more on his brother, "that is why I cannot be king."

* * *

**_A/N:_**_ If you didn't read _**_35 Years of the Sun_**_, you should. It will explain what thirty-five years of torment has done to Maedhros and prepare you for future chapters. _

_Also, I've added the answers to some people's review questions in the 'Echoes' thread of my story forum if you're interested. You can post other questions there as well. Roll on! _


	18. Reinforcements

**Chapter 18 – Reinforcements**

_When fighting a battle for an ellon's soul, one might require reinforcements.  


* * *

_**Valinor  
Fourth Age**

Eruanna recognized Mahtan's distinctive knock when he arrived at Maglor's door. It was not cautious, like those of the messengers or servants, nor did it have the authoritative sound that announced the king. Mahtan's knock was – _merry _– if such a description could be given to the sound of fist on wood. She called on him to enter and when the door opened he flashed her the brightest of smiles. He carried a large parcel wrapped in fine linen under one arm, and was followed by a tall, golden haired ellon Eruanna did not recognize.

"A fine morning to you, Lord Mahtan," Eruanna said with a smile.

Mahtan lifted his free hand in protest. "Please, child, as I have told you before, just Mahtan. There are enough ellyn in this palace to call lord."

Eruanna could not help but smile. Mahtan was one of the most gregarious elves she had ever known. She had taken a liking to him quickly, despite the strangeness of their first encounter. "I will try to remember," she said, then glanced briefly at Mahtan's companion. "Prince Maglor is not here," she added then, "if you were hoping to see him before you departed."

Mahtan shook his head. "We have already said our private goodbyes, but I have one more thing to give him before I return home. And…" He rested a hand on his companion's shoulder. "I wished to introduce _you_ to an old friend of the family. This is Elemmírë, he and Maglor were inseparable in their youth."

Eruanna's eyes widened in surprise. "Elemmírë, the bard?" she asked.

The ellon smiled and his blue eyed brightened considerably at her question. "You have heard of me?"

Mahtan halted Eruanna's response before she could make one. "Before you answer that question," he said with mock seriousness, "I should warn you that fame and glory have caused Elemmírë to suffer from a swelled head. He can barely get his tunic over it at times. If you care for his health, and the well-being of his wardrobe, you would do well to temper your response."

Elemmírë rolled his eyes at Mahtan, but was not at all offended by the bit of humor at his expense.

Eruanna bit her lower lip to keep from laughing. When she was once again in control of herself, she offered the renowned Vanya a compliment worthy of Erestor. "I believe I have heard one or two or your compositions," she said. "They were … good."

"Good?" Elemmírë laughed heartily at the elleth's moderate assessment of his works.

Mahtan smiled at his companions and waited for the Vanya's laughter to subside before continuing their introduction. "And this is Eruanna," he said to Elemmírë. "She is Maglor's scribe, and I daresay the two of you have much in common."

"Do we?" Eruanna asked, curious where Mahtan was going with this bit of intrigue. After all, the last time Eruanna had heard, she possessed as much musical talent as a seagull.

Mahtan nodded and then endeavored to explain. "My grandson has worked hard to drive you both from his sight – unsuccessfully, I might add. I thought perhaps you could combine your efforts to draw him out of his shell. Two together may be more successful than each alone."

"Three together," Elemmírë said, "counting you, Mahtan."

The humor drained from Mahtan's face and his voice was tinged with sadness. "Alas, I must return to my forge, but I will feel much better in leaving if I knew two edhil as kind and stubborn as you were watching over Maglor for me."

_Kind and stubborn._ Eruanna had never received such a strange and utterly unlooked for compliment. She smiled at Mahtan, accepting the charge he laid for her. Then she turned to Elemmírë. "I would be glad for the company," she said to him.

"As would I," Elemmírë agreed.

"Well then, that is settled." Mahtan said, and a moment later his gaze shifted door. "And I believe I hear my grandson approaching."

The door opened a second later and Maglor stepped inside. His eyes grew wide at the sight of the force arrayed against him. He glanced only briefly at Elemmírë before addressing his grandfather. "I thought you were leaving early this morning," he said.

Mahtan shook his head. "I had one more item to pick up at the market and the vendor was late with his delivery." He laid his free hand on Elemmírë. "While I was waiting I ran into your old friend Elemmírë. I told him you would be delighted to see him again."

Maglor wasn't fooled in the least by his grandfather's explanation, and his eyes showed it. He crossed the room and took a seat at his desk. "I'm afraid I am very busy today," he said. "I do not have time to entertain guests."

But Eruanna, seizing the opportunity to assist Mahtan, jumped in to correct him. "You have no appointments until mid afternoon, my lord, and I have already dealt with the morning's letters. I will have the kitchen send up lunch for two."

Eruanna scurried from the room to make the arrangements before Maglor could protest, while Maglor, blindsided, watched her go in a daze.

Mahtan was grateful for Eruanna's quick thinking. He did his part in thanking her by drawing his grandson's attention away from her departing form. "I have something for you, my son," Mahtan said, and rested the parcel he carried on Maglor's desk. "I regret I could not give it to you earlier, but some of the parts I needed took long to request."

Maglor looked from the oddly shaped something to his grandfather's face. "What is this?" he asked.

"Why don't you unwrap it and find out."

Something in Mahtan's eyes made Maglor hesitate. He glanced at Elemmírë, whose guileless expression told Maglor he knew nothing of this gift. Maglor stood from his chair and untied the strings that held the wrapping in place. The object's shape became clearer as the layers of cloth fell away. What lay beneath the strips of linen was a harp of some unique design. The frame was hand carved from mahogany with an intricate floral design laid into the wood bearing gold and silver adornments. It was a work of art. And Maglor stood so in awe of its beauty, he dared not touch it.

Mahtan spoke when the silence continued too long for him to bear. "If you'll recall," he said to Maglor, "you once asked my assistance in perfecting a new harp design. I laid the project aside when you departed, but when I learned of your return, I thought I might try my hand at it once more."

Maglor continued to stare at the instrument. It dawned on him, slowly, that his grandfather had made this masterpiece for him. He shook his head in disbelief. "I have not picked up a harp in many years," he said quietly.

"If you have forgotten the notes," Mahtan replied, "I am certain Elemmírë here can assist you."

Maglor did not look at the Vanya. Instead, his pain-filled eyes shifted from the harp to his grandfather. "I am not worthy of such a gift," he said.

"Then make yourself worthy of it," Mahtan replied. He circled Maglor's desk in three strides so that he stood before him. "I must depart, now. Your grandmother does not like it when I am late." Mahtan pulled Maglor into his arms one last time and into his ear, he whispered, "A long road lies ahead. Do not drive away those who would journey it with you."

This time Maglor's attention turned briefly to Elemmírë.

Mahtan pulled away and patted Maglor's cheek before he tuned away. To Elemmírë he bowed his head and flashed him a wink before departing. Both Maglor and Elemmírë watched the door close behind him, conscious of the fact that they were alone again, for the second time in so many millennia.

Elemmírë turned to Maglor, but the prince's eyes were on his grandfather's gift. "It is magnificent," Elemmírë said. He reached out his hand to the harp, but stopped before making contact. He looked to Maglor for permission. "May I?"

Maglor nodded.

Elemmírë lifted the harp from its resting place and plucked several of its strings. They needed tuning, and he spent a few minutes tightening them until they were just right. Elemmírë did not ask permission before he sat himself down in the chair opposite Maglor's desk. He began to play a little tune, a song dedicated to the Trees that Maglor helped him compose long ago. He played for awhile, stopping only when he noticed the anguished expression on Maglor's face. He laid the harp back down on Maglor's desk.

"Perfect," he said. "Mahtan has great skill."

Maglor nodded and a slight trembling could be heard in his voice when he said, "That he does."

Elemmírë, neither deaf nor blind, knew Mahtan's gift had pained Maglor. He knew also that _his_ presence and the song he had chosen to play had not helped matters. Maglor said nothing to Elemmírë as the silence lengthened and his troubled gaze remained fixed on the harp.

"Will you not play something?" Elemmírë asked at last.

Maglor's eyes lifted from the harp to find Elemmírë watching him intently, concern etched upon his face. "I cannot," he said.

Maglor's voice was barely above a whisper, as if this confession was painful to his ears. "Why not?" Elemmírë asked.

Maglor closed his eyes and breathed deep, as if summoning the strength to speak his answer. "Because," he replied. "I have no music, no poetry left. There is only darkness inside of me."

Elemmírë smiled gently at his friend. "Then we must light a torch to drive it away."

_Light a torch?_ Maglor shook his head. "How?"

Elemmírë shrugged and looked again at the harp. "With a C chord?" he suggested.

Maglor laughed but the humor was short lived. His gaze drifted from the harp to Elemmírë and across the room to Eruanna's desk. He had almost forgotten her little betrayal. "You've joined forces against me, haven't you?" he asked.

Elemmírë followed his gaze to the elleth's desk. He shook his head. "Not _against_," he said.

Maglor was not so certain he believed that, nor could he comprehend why so many edhil went out of their way to trouble him. This last thought, in part, escaped his lips. "Don't you have more important things to do with your time than trouble me?"

Elemmírë's mouth curled into a familiar grin. "Honestly?" he said. "No. As I said before, I have been lonely here without you."

Maglor was still not ready to accept that excuse, but before he could say so, Elemmírë spoke once more. "I _am_ working on a new composition," he said, "and could use some advice – from one with a good ear, that is. Will you help me?"

Maglor's voice caught in his throat. It had been ages since he and Elemmírë last worked together on a piece of music. Part of him wanted to laugh at the suggestion, while another part, long forgotten, leapt for joy. The two instincts warred with each other. Could he admit, even to himself, how much he longed for Elemmírë's music to carry him away? He couldn't. Not yet. But despite this truth, Maglor could not bring himself to say no. "Well, there _is _a harp in front of you, isn't there?" His tone was crisp. He could not allow himself to sound too eager.

Maglor's attempt at indifference did not fool Elemmírë in the slightest, but he said nothing. Instead, he took up the instrument. He began to play and sing. It was a passionate song, recounting the reunion of an elf with his lover after an age in Mandos' halls. It was not like any song he or Maglor had ever composed in their youth. How could it be? The world was changed, even for the elves who dwelt all their lives in Valinor, and in time the great bard of the Vanya had come to sing of sadness as well.

Elemmírë played on, and every now and then Maglor would interrupt his performance to suggest a change or addition to the composition. They would argue the matter until it was settled, as they always did, and then Elemmírë would begin again. While Elemmírë played, Maglor's attention was fixed on the glorious music and the warm tenor of his friend's voice, and for those few, precious hours, he was once again Makalaurë.

* * *

**A/N:** _FFN's reviews were down when I posted the last chapter. It's such an important point in Maglor's story and I didn't get any feedback. Please let me know what you thought of the interactions between Maglor and his brothers. Thanks!_


	19. Lament for Midsummer

**Chapter 19 – Lament for Midsummer**

_Today the people of Valinor gather to celebrate life, while I can think of nothing but his death.  


* * *

_

**Valinor  
Fourth Age**

Maglor loved midsummer. It was the one day of the year he was free to wander the streets of Tirion without enduring the angry glares of strangers. The city's inhabitants had departed the day before for Alqualondë as the midsummer festival was held on its shores. It was a tradition, held since the elves first came to Valinor. And Maglor was grateful for it. The palace was quiet and peaceful now and he wandered its halls more casually than he would on any other day of the year. He even took the time to study the new tapestries and works of art that adorned the walls. He was always too busy getting to where he was going without being stopped or seen to take notice of the beauty surrounding him.

It was late in the day when Maglor's thoughts turned towards the sea. The sun was setting and Maglor knew the bard's contest was about to begin. He and Elemmírë had worked long together to perfect his composition, and Maglor hoped his friend would be the victor. It was a strange thing – to hope again – and for something as pure and unselfish as another's happiness. It had been a long time, a long time, indeed.

He walked along the high wall of the castle gazing at the stars. A cool breeze blew across his face and he thought he could hear the singing of elves … only … the wind was blowing from the west. The singing Maglor heard was not coming from Alqualondë, but from somewhere close by. And the voice … it sounded so … familiar. Maglor could not say precisely why he followed the sound. Perhaps it was the sadness contained in the singer's voice, or the fact that someone else would choose to remain in Tirion while the grandest celebration of the year was under way.

Maglor found the elleth alone on the western tower and it was only when he saw her sitting a few feet away that he connected the voice with a name. Her voice was not beautiful, and to a trained ear even less so, but somehow the imperfections gave her song greater power. How had he missed it – the pain and sadness in her heart? It was so plain to him now. Even in the starlight, hidden in the shadows, he could see the weight of the past dragging her down. Maglor had to admit he never thought much about the child's life before he met her. She was peredhel, and no doubt had suffered similar obstacles as Elrond in her youth. But even so, he never imagined Eruanna to be anything other than the wide-eyed innocent child he took her for.

Maglor continued to watch her from the shadows, unseen. Sadness and longing echoed with her every word, but Maglor did not recognize the song. It was something about stars, of Silvan origin by its form. When the song was done, Maglor stepped forward, making his presence known. "I was not expecting to find you here," he said.

Eruanna rose swiftly from her seat at the sound of Maglor's voice, spilling a stack of drawings onto the floor.

Maglor watched the papers fall. One floated toward him and landed beside his boot. "I did not mean to startle you. I thought I was the only one left in the palace."

Eruanna dropped to one knee to collect her drawings, avoiding Maglor's gaze. "It is quiet with everyone away," she mumbled, more than embarrassed to know that the greatest singer of all the Eldar had heard her song.

Maglor sensed her unease, but had no way of knowing its source or how deeply it ran. He bent down to help her retrieve the papers lying scattered on the floor. He collected those closest to him and was surprised to find that all three were of the same ellon, one Maglor did not recognize.

"I thought you had gone to Alqualondë with the others," he said.

Eruanna tucked her drawings quickly into her leather folder. "I do not care to attend the festival," she said.

Maglor was surprised to hear her say so. "What about that twittering friend of yours? Was she not going on and on about how much fun you would have at the celebration?"

Eruanna's eyes widened in surprise. She had no idea Maglor had been paying such close attention to Marilla's chattering. "Marilla did her best to change my mind, as did Elemmírë."

"Elemmírë is performing this evening," Maglor said, though he was certain Eruanna was well aware of that fact.

"I know," Eruanna replied. "He was disheartened when I told him I would not be attending."

"You decided to spend the evening drawing instead?" He handed her the illustrations he'd collected from the ground. "I did not realize you were an artist," he said, gesturing to the stack of parchment. "May I see them?"

"I am not, not really," she replied, ignoring his request to view the rest of the images.

Maglor noticed, of course, but did not press. Instead he asked her, "Who is the ellon in the drawings?"

"Rumil," she replied.

The sadness he had heard earlier in her voice, shone clearly in her eyes once more. "Where is he now?" he asked, though he could guess the answer easily enough.

"In Mandos," she replied.

"I see," he said. "And you wait for him?" The smallest hint of surprise could be heard in Maglor's voice when he asked her this. He had intentionally avoided taking an interest in his young scribe's life and therefore had no idea that she grieved for one loved and lost. It seemed wrong, somehow. Grief did not suit Eruanna's bright and innocent spirit.

"Yes," she answered.

"Is he your reason for missing the festival?"

Eruanna, startled by Maglor's insight, nodded slowly in response. "He asked me to attend it with him," she said. "We had only met once before on the border of Lothlórien, but he came to see me when he returned to the city and asked me that very same day."

"And you said yes, I presume."

Eruanna's mouth curled into a smile. "After a bit of convincing," she said.

Maglor's brow rose curiously. "And why did you require convincing?"

Eruanna blushed crimson before admitting, "I broke his nose."

Maglor laughed before he could help himself. It was the last thing he had expected her to say and he could hardly imagine how such a thing was possible. The child was no warrior and the ellon she had depicted clearly was. "I'm sorry." He fought to stifle his laughter, before he spoke again. "How did you manage that, may I ask?"

"Do you care?" she asked, curious of his motives.

He paused a minute to consider her question and realized, to his own astonishment, that he did care. "I would not have asked otherwise." When all he received from Eruanna was a look of skepticism, he added, "Come, now. I have suffered your unending questioning for years. The least you can do is tell me how you managed to break a warrior's nose?"

"It's a long story," she replied.

Maglor merely shrugged and took a seat on the stone wall. "I have no other plans this evening."

Eruanna spent the next hour sharing stories of Rumil. She told Maglor of their first meeting, the incident by the lake and other moments they shared together over the years. It was the first time since his death that she had spoken of Rumil to anyone, or allowed herself to remember all the joy they shared. Maglor listened quietly for the most part, only breaking his silence with laughter from time to time. If he sensed that Eruanna had deliberately omitted important bits and pieces from her narrative, he made no mention of it.

"I miss him," she said in the end and her eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

"If the Valar are merciful, he will walk again in this world."

"Do you believe they are?" she asked. "Merciful, that is?"

"I believe so," Maglor replied, "to those who deserve their mercy."

Eruanna wondered whether Maglor believed himself to be deserving of the Valar's mercy, but she did not have the heart to ask. Not yet. Instead, her gaze fell to the leather folder resting on her lap. He had asked to see them earlier, her drawings, but she ignored his request. She feared his reaction to the many images contained within. She hesitated only a moment before handing the leather-bound stack of parchment over to Maglor.

Maglor took them with a look of surprise, but said nothing. He merely opened the folder and began to flip through its pages. He paused now and again at the familiar faces – but only one drawing made Maglor's insides feel as if they had been ripped out. He lifted his hand and traced the outline of the elleth's face.

Eruanna watched Maglor's expression change into one of shock and pain upon reaching the drawing of Lord Círdan's daughter. "She was at the Ringbearer's feast," Eruanna said, prompting Maglor to speak.

"I remember," he replied.

"You knew her, then?" she pressed gently, hoping for an answer, but expecting none.

Maglor remained silent. He didn't quite know how to answer the elleth's question. Had he ever really known the Lady Anira? "We were … acquainted."

It was a terribly odd choice of words, or so Eruanna thought, particularly in reference to an elleth whose image clearly caused him great pain. "What is she to you?"

"Nothing," he answered quietly, closing the folder on the image of the Lady's face. He handed Eruanna the stack of drawings before rising to his feet.

"What _was_ she, then?" she asked quickly, before he could make good his escape.

Maglor had almost reached the door when Eruanna asked her question. It was another question for which he had no clear answer. "Something … I could never have."

* * *

_**A/N:**__ I promise I haven't forgotten dear Rumil, and neither has Eruanna. _


	20. Desire

**Chapter 20 - Desire**

_The poet writes often of desire – of love and longing and loss. He finds beauty in misery, poetry in pain. That is his art. And yet he creates nothing. He is merely the instrument through which the agony of our experience is perfectly expressed._

* * *

**Middle Earth  
****First Age 20  
****The Feast of Reuniting**

The Pools of Ivrin were glorious. Their waters were cool and inviting in the heat of the day and they glistened and sparkled at night. Yes, _the pools_ were glorious. The food – exceptional. The music and entertainments – memorable, to be sure. But for Maglor, nothing could compare to the sight of her face, to the sound of her laughter or her voice lifted in song. There was no fairer sight at Fingolfin's Feast than that of Lord Círdan's daughter.

_Anira._

Even her name was beautiful. And it was all Maglor could do to keep from revealing his budding infatuation to all. He was cautious, for the most part. He never spoke with the lady alone and he schooled his face to betray no stray emotion when he saw her. Once, only once, since the Feast began had he allowed his eyes to betray him. It was on the fifth night of the Reunion when his gaze was drawn to the maiden as she danced to some ancient melody beneath the light of Ithil. And of all who might have been watching Maglor at that moment, it had been Caranthir who spied him, and followed his brother's gaze to the silver-haired maid.

"A _Sinda_, brother?" his voice dripped with scorn. "She is beneath you," he said, and walked away.

Maedhros, seated nearby, overheard him and caught Maglor's eye. His gaze shifted briefly to Círdan's daughter and his brow lifted in surprise. Maglor said nothing. What could he say? It was a commonly held belief that the elves of Middle-earth were _less_ than those nurtured by the light of the Valar. Maglor, himself, had once believed this to be true. But it mattered little to his heart, of what people Anira was born. And so Maglor might have sought the lady out, he would have, in fact, if not for the presence of her brother.

_Aearion._

The very sight of Lord Círdan's son was enough to make Maglor sick, for Aearion bore an uncanny resemblance to his cousin across the sea. Ionwë – whom Maglor had slain. The young lord would sit in Council, whispering now and then into his father's ear. And when his eyes fell on the Fëanorions, Maglor could swear he saw suspicion there. But Maedhros said he imagined things and Celegorm and Caranthir deemed him paranoid. Still, there was something, something that warned Maglor to stay away. And if what he felt in his heart when Aearion's eyes met his was nothing more than guilt – then guilt was more than enough to stay him.

Less than a week now remained until the reunion ended, and Maglor was more than relieved of it. He was tired of pretense, tired of treaties, of promises and lies. He was ready to go home, to forget the half-truths he and his kinsman had told the dark elves of Middle-earth. And most of all, he wanted to forget he had ever laid eyes on Círdan's daughter. Pity, then, that he should hear her calling out to him as he journeyed from the Council to his encampment.

"Prince Maglor!"

His gaze turned to the water and he spied her near a gathering of elves. She was a vision to behold, even dressed in a simple gown of blue satin. Though the dress and the lady were unadorned, she seemed to sparkle in the light. Her silver hair, caught by the wind danced about her face, and her soft features, delicate and fine, were perfect complements to her golden-brown eyes. Those eyes were wise, gentle and full of light. Maglor had never imagined such complexity when he and Anira first spoke. But whether the conversation turned to music or art, politics or war, her eyes shone with understanding. Yes, she was a dark elf, but what Maglor had come to learn over the years was that the elves born and raised in Middle-earth had seen so much more than the elves of Valinor.

Anira was seated on a stone bench near the shoreline – and she was not alone. An ellon sat beside her. He was handsome, with dark hair and somber eyes. His right hand rested casually on the small of her back. It was not an intimate gesture, but it caused in Maglor a sudden stab of jealously, so much so, that he had to suppress the urge to draw his sword and part the offending hand from its owner's arm.

Anira beckoned him again, and Maglor relented. He approached the pair, and greeted the lady with a smile. "Lady Anira," he said and bowed.

"Good day to you, Prince Maglor." She, too, greeted him formally, as was proper with a stranger nearby, though they had come to call each other by name during more casual encounters. "I wish to introduce you to an old friend of mine." She gestured to the ellon, who stood to greet Maglor. "This is Lord Daeron, the great loremaster and minstrel of Doriath."

"Prince Maglor." Daeron bowed and Maglor returned the gesture.

Maglor's irritation at the ellon eased some and was replaced quickly by interest. "Your name is known to me, Lord Daeron," said Maglor, "as is your lay of the First Battle. Your people speak very highly of you."

"And the Noldor of you," Daeron replied.

Anira appeared pleased by the introduction. "That is why I wanted to introduce you," said to Maglor. "After all, a festival is not a festival without a bard's contest."

"A contest?" Maglor's voice betrayed both his surprise and lack of enthusiasm. It had been a long time since he performed in public, years in fact. The horrors of Alqualondë, of his father's death and Maedhros' imprisonment had quashed any love he once had for song. His passion for the harp, too, had all but abandoned him. He sang now only for his brothers, old songs of home. He sang at their request, but he found no joy in it.

"I have not performed in many years," he said, "since before our people sailed, and I have had little time or inspiration for composition."

Daeron merely smiled. "I am certain we can find a topic to inspire you." His eyes flitted briefly to Anira's face before returning to rest on Maglor. "Beauty, perhaps? Or desire?"

Maglor felt as though the air had been forced from his lungs. It was an all too accurate insight and from an ellon he had only just met. _How did he…? _"We will have to discuss the matter further," Maglor said, straining to keep the anger from his voice. "If you will walk with me?"

Daeron nodded and both ellyn bowed to Anira. They wished her a good day. She did the same before joining a group of ellith chatting near the shore.

Maglor turned and walked in the opposite direction and Daeron followed swiftly on his heels. He had to jog a bit to catch up, such was Maglor's pace. They walked on together and Maglor, for a time, said nothing, but tried to collect his thoughts. It could have been coincidence, what Daeron said, just a simple suggestion. It could have been…

"I did not mean to upset you, my lord," said Daeron, interrupting Maglor's thoughts.

Maglor halted in his tracks so suddenly that Daeron was two steps ahead of him before he stopped. When he turned to face Maglor there was nothing but sincerity in his eyes, and something else that looked close to understanding.

"Why would you think you upset me?" Maglor asked, curious to know the ellon's thoughts and if he would dare to speak them.

There was a moment's pause before Daeron replied, "Because I know what it is like to desire an elleth, who is, shall we say, out of reach."

Maglor's expression must have betrayed his dismay, for the bard quickly added.

"You have not given yourself away. Not yet. I have merely suffered long enough with the same malady to recognize the symptoms in another."

"I see," Maglor replied, warily. He could only imagine what this insightful ellon had been telling Anira about him. He wanted to know what Daeron had told her, but found he had no need to ask.

"She has no idea," Daeron said, as if he had read Maglor's thoughts. "And I have said nothing."

Maglor could not say why he believed Daeron so easily, but he was oddly reassured by his words, though not by those that followed.

"Aearion _has _noticed," said Daeron, "and he is not pleased."

"And why is that?" Maglor made his best attempt not to sound too concerned with the answer.

Daeron shook his head. "I have no idea, to be honest. He is an ellon of few words. But when he does speak … well … I should warn you now – what Aearion says, he means."

"I will bear that in mind," said Maglor and they continued walking along the lakeshore.

"That would be wise," Daeron replied.

Maglor heartily agreed. The pair walked in silence for a short time – Maglor contemplating Daeron, and Daeron contemplating the scenery.

The silence was broken this time by Maglor. "I was not exaggerating earlier," Maglor said after a time. "It has been sixty years since my last composition."

Daeron did not appear as surprised by this confession as Maglor expected. "I could not sing for a hundred and forty years after my mother was slain by orcs," Daeron told him. "Then one day I found the words to express all that had happened. It flowed out from me and was transformed into poetry. After that, I could sing again."

"I fear my grief might take longer to put into words," said Maglor.

"Perhaps," said Daeron. He turned to Maglor then, with a light in his eye. "Would you deign, then, to compose a song with me?"

A smile curled Maglor's lips, but it was balanced by a flash of pain in his eyes. "I had a friend in Valinor. Elemmírë, was his name. He was hailed as the greatest bard of the Vanyar. We composed many songs together. We were rivals, too, of course … as well as friends."

Daeron smiled at Maglor's description. "I should like to meet him some day."

Maglor nodded, but could say no more on the topic of Elemmírë. "Well then, what shall we sing of?"

* * *

They sang of beauty and desire, of longing and laughter and tears. No ellon or elleth's name was ever mentioned. Their names lived in the hearts of those who listened. And the applause that rose from the crowd when their song ended was its own reward.

By the time Maglor and Daeron climbed off the stage the greater part of the assembly had begun to disperse. A small crowd remained, having gathered to praise them. Maglor accepted their kindness with quiet dignity and relief. He had worried so, prior to their performance, that he was not up to the task. But working with Daeron had kindled the old flame, the fire that had gone out in his heart. He allowed himself to hope, for the very first time, that Middle-earth indeed held the promise of the new life that he and his kin had hoped for.

He excused himself from the lords and ladies that had gathered and retreated to the stage corner to polish and store the elegant harp Daeron had lent him. His labors were nearly done when a familiar voice interrupted him.

"I never thought to hear a voice to rival Daeron's," Anira said.

Maglor bowed his head in acknowledgement of her praise. "Thank you," he said.

"And your song, it was…" Her voice trailed off and a rosey color spread across her cheeks. She had been sitting near to the stage during his performance and Maglor's eyes had caught hers more than once. And though her name was never mentioned in his song, she had undertood him.

"Inspired," Maglor finished for her.

She smiled and like the stars her eyes sparkled with light. "I was planning on joining friends down by the falls," she said to him. "There will be dancing tonight. Would you care to join us?"

Maglor's heart beat furiously. No invitation in all his days was ever more welcome than this. "I…"

But a shout interrupted him. "Anira!" a voice called out.

Anira turned at the sound of her brother approaching. "Yes?"

Aearion took his sister's arm, "Father is looking for you," he said, and jerked his chin in the direction of their camp.

"Oh," Anira said, her voice betraying disappointment. She turned back to Maglor. "Good evening, Prince Maglor. Perhaps we will see each other later tonight?"

"Perhaps," Maglor replied and he did his best to ignore the look Aearion gave him when he said this.

Anira seemed to sense that something was amiss, but she said nothing. She merely smiled at Maglor and kissed her brother's cheek before she went. But Aearion stood rooted to the spot, his eyes never leaving Maglor. It seemed the 'ellon of few words' was ready to share some.

"Lord Aearion," Maglor prompted, "was there something you wished to say to me?"

Aearion's expression hardened measurably and the cold glare he shot Maglor was enough to chill his bones. "The Noldor say they have come to help us, to free Middle-earth from Morgoth's wrath." He stepped forward, nearer to Maglor and spoke quietly so that none would overhear what next he said. "Yet you bring no word from our kin, or any message from the Valar themselves. And when I look into _your_ eyes, and the eyes of your brothers, I see guilt and fear."

There was a pause, a long silence that seemed to stretch to eternity. In that time every look of suspicion Maglor had seen on Aearion's face flashed before his eyes.

"Do you know what I say, Fëanorion?" Aearion stepped closer still to Maglor, until they stood toe to toe. His face was mere inches away when he snarled, "I say you and your kinsmen stink of lies."

Aearion gave no ground, daring Maglor to deny it. And when the prince failed to answer his accusation, he withdrew one slow step at a time, turned, and walked away. He paused only once near the treeline and Maglor heard him say, "Stay away from my sister," before he disappeared into the night.

Maglor turned in the opposite direction and walked slowly into the woods, no care for where he was going. He stumbled several paces into the dark, lonely forest before resting his head against the pillar of a tree. He closed his eyes, but Aearion's face flashed before him, morphing swiftly into the face of another. Ionwë's face and Aearion's both accused him of treachery. For the first time in fifty years, the Noldor's crimes were laid bare. Aearion had seen it, seen it in his eyes, Maglor knew he had. But the elves he and his kinsmen had left dead on the shores of Valinor were not the cause of the tears that flooded Maglor's eyes. His tears were for Anira, the lovely, brilliant maiden with the silver hair. The elleth he could never face again without hearing her brother's claim – and remembering the truth of it. Maglor could not stop the tears from falling, nor the wave of nausea that brought him to his knees. And from where he sat alone in the dark he could hear the musicians playing. He could hear the laughter of the dancers. He could hear the people sing.


	21. What peace for the broken hearted?

**Chapter 21 – What peace for the broken-hearted?**

_There is but one malady for which the Valar have no cure._

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* * *

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**Valinor  
Fourth Age**

Eruanna was eager to learn all she could about Anira, but she dared not ask any more from Maglor. Instead, she sought out Marilla, for Eruanna knew if there was any gossip about Maglor and Lord Círdan's daughter, she could count on the elleth to have heard it. True to form, Marilla hung on Eruanna's every word as she related the tale Maglor had shared with her. But to Eruanna's dismay, Marilla had nothing else to offer.

"I have heard no whisper to do with Lady Anira," she said, "and if there were something more to the tale of her and Maglor, I would know of it."

Eruanna was confident in that fact as well. "To be sure, you know everything about everyone."

"I try," said Marilla. She cast her friend an impish grin before rising to collect Eruanna's combs from her dresser.

Eruanna lay down on her bed and rested her chin on her folded arms. "Perhaps we should ask Elemmírë? He might know something more. He has lived in Valinor all his life."

Marilla, not to be outdone by anyone, offered the one bit of information she could recall about Maglor's lady love. "Well, I do know she arrived in Valinor at the end of the first age – along with her mother. Lady Eärwen mentioned it when discussing Lord Círdan's coming. I think he is expected soon."

"What about their son, Aearion? Do you know when he sailed?"

"No," she huffed as she plopped back down on the bed. She took up a section of Eruanna's hair and began brushing it none too gently.

"What is wrong?" Eruanna asked when the change in Marilla's mood became clear.

But Marilla seemed not to hear. "Do you think he pines for her still," she asked, "after all this time? It would be terribly romantic."

Eruanna could not help but smile. It was a rare occasion when both she and Marilla were thinking the same thing, although 'tragic' was more of the word that came to Eruanna's mind. "I do not know," she replied.

"Why don't you ask him?" Marilla suggested. "He seems willing enough to confide his secrets to you."

"I don't know about that," said Eruanna. She was not even certain Maglor realized he told her these things. "Sometimes I think he forgets I am even there, as if he is dream talking. And when the story is over he wakes up and only then does he remember I am with him."

"Is he rude to you afterward?" Marilla asked.

"No," said Eruanna. "But I would not want to press my luck by asking for more detail than he wishes to offer."

"Nonsense!" cried Marilla. "What can he do, dismiss you? You are the only one who could put up with him."

"That is not true," Eruanna said, but not too convincingly.

"You would not see me running his errands," Marilla huffed.

"Marilla…" Eruanna began, but her friend headed the lecture off.

"I know, I know," she said. "You like him … just don't go falling in love with him."

Eruanna shook her head, getting her hair pulled in the process. She let out a little yelp of pain before saying, "Now you are being absurd."

"Maybe so," said Marilla, "but I care for your reputation, even if you do not."

"What do you mean – my reputation?" Eruanna turned to look at her friend.

Marilla pursed her lips, not sure quite how to broach the subject. At last, she said simply, "They talk about you."

"Who does?" Eruanna asked.

"Everyone, of course," Marilla replied, "from Tirion to Alqualondë to the peaks of Taniquetil. They all know of the peredhel that works for Maglor. Some think you naïve or insane, and others are ruder still."

Marilla's eyes flashed briefly with anger – just as they had when Eruanna mentioned Aearion. Eruanna, for her part, did not know how to feel about Marilla's revelation. It should not have come as a surprise that people spoke of her, but still, the idea of insults cast behind her back could not help but hurt a little. "I knew many in the palace were shocked when I took up the post, but they accepted it readily enough. I was not aware it was talked about elsewhere."

Marilla, affecting offense on her friend's behalf, scowled angrily. "There is nothing to do in Valinor but gossip!" she said. "And Maglor's return was the biggest news since the Noldor fled."

"Childishness, that is all it is," said Eruanna in an attempt to comfort herself as much as Marilla.

"Maybe so," said Marilla, but she did not sound all too convinced. It was clear that this particular topic of gossip had upset her greatly. Eruanna drew herself up to a seated position, pulled the brush from Marilla's hand and began unraveling her braids. Eruanna knew the cure for Marilla's ill mood.

"So," Eruanna prompted, "what did Aearion say about me?"

Marilla immediately burst into a tirade of immeasurable proportion and Eruanna allowed her friend to vent. She thought it a good thing the Sinda lord dwelled in Alqualondë, but even from this distance, she imagined Aearion's ears were probably ringing. Eruanna might have been upset, herself, by the things Marilla had heard him say about her - but there was no need. Marilla was aflame with enough righteous indignation for the two of them. And Eruanna burst into tears of laughter when Marilla confessed to spiking the lord's tea with ink. A little revenge, she said, on her dearest friend's behalf.

In the midst of their laughter a knock sounded at the door. Eruanna wiped the tears from her eyes and worked hard to calm herself before she opened the door. She found Erestor standing on the other side. Her humor turned instantly to concern for Erestor's expression was grave.

"Father, what has happened?"

Erestor wasted no time in telling her. "Word has reached the city. Lord Celeborn's ship has arrived."

* * *

Eruanna ran to keep up with her father's long strides. He held the note in his hand, delivered only minutes earlier. It was written hurriedly in Elrond's fine script. It said only that Celeborn's ship had docked and Elrond's household was awaiting his arrival. By the time Eruanna and her father reached the wing where the House of Elrond resided a small company had already gathered. Among them were Galadriel for she was in the city visiting her daughter. The Lady was clearly upset she had not been in Alqualondë for her husband's arrival.

The minutes stretched into hours while they waited for Celeborn's company to arrive, and those assembled chatted quietly in twos and threes. The sun was on the horizon when at last the sound of footsteps echoed in the hall. All fell silent when a knock sounded at the door. Forgoing all propriety Galadriel raced forward and flung open the door. Before Eruanna could wonder who stood on the threshold the great lady was swept off the floor and into the arms of Celeborn who had also chosen to forego formality. Laughter and cheers greeted Celeborn but the crowd might well have been silent for all the attention he gave them. His eyes were for his wife alone, and when he finally tore them away from Galadriel's face, they sought out his daughter's. Celebrían flew into his arms and he held her fast. When he lifted his head again his eyes caught Elrond's, then he glanced at the door.

The ellyn gathered in the hall parted and forward stepped a familiar face – an ellon tall and dark who looked all too much like his father. Celebrían rushed to embrace the new arrival and Elladan gripped her tight. His face was alight with his heart's inner joy. Elrond rushed to join them but paused when his son's eyes lifted to his. Elladan grinned at his father and glanced once again at the door.

Elrond nearly knocked Celeborn over in the rush to reach his son. He pulled Elrohir into his arms and embraced him tightly, his tears flowing freely down his cheeks. It seemed to Eruanna that Elrond had feared that this son, more than the other, might have been lost to him forever. Elrohir returned his father's embrace with a smile more reserved than his brother's. And when Celebrían came to welcome this son, it seemed that he feared to touch her. But a moment later the fear had passed and he was in her arms, tears streaming down his cheeks. For a long time he did not let her go.

After their tears were spent, laughter followed quickly. There was a line of people waiting to welcome the twins and their grandfather home. Eruanna was overjoyed to see them and greeted all three ellyn briefly for there was no time for talk before they were drawn into the arms of another.

Celebrían and Elrond were greedy with their sons' attentions, but no one begrudged them their company. Eruanna, herself, watched the four of them together from across the room. The lord and lady's eyes shone with joy as did Elladan's, but Elrohir's mood was subdued. When he smiled it felt forced and the rapturous light she saw in Elladan's face was missing entirely.

A few hours later Elrohir slipped out onto the balcony. No one but Eruanna saw him go and she followed him, anxious to hear news of Arwen, of the brothers' last years in Middle-earth, and of the choice they both had made.

He was standing at the edge of the balcony, looking up at the sky when she found him. He looked both thoughtful and lost at the same time. She knew he had come out here to be alone and was ready to leave if he asked. She was at a loss of what to say. The sons of Elrond had never said goodbye – not to her or to anyone. They had only ever said good journey. She had wondered often over the years if they would, like Arwen, choose a mortal life. "You came," she said simply.

Elrohir heard her, but he kept his eyes on the sky. "Like you," he said, "I had many reasons not to sail, but no reason to remain behind."

Eruanna was not entirely surprised by his confession and his expression told her there was more. She moved slowly to his side, willing to listen if he wished to speak. "What reasons?" she asked.

Elrohir was silent for a long time. It was clear the choice had weighed heavily on him as it had on her. "I have cursed the Valar many times," he said, "and Ilúvatar as well … ever since we found her on Caradhras."

He shut his eyes against the memory of the attack. He had tried and failed many times to still the rage he felt towards the great powers. It was futile, but there was hope, at least, that the Valar would understand or that in time he would come to forgive them. Anger had not been his greatest concern.

"I knew not if I could ever again look into my mother's eyes. I feared I would see in them what I felt in my own heart – that we should have been at her side, protecting her, instead of off chasing glory." He sighed. That fear, at least, had been groundless. His mother's eyes had shone with love. There had been no touch of anger or accusation within them.

That left one last thing, "And then there is you…"

His voice trailed off and Eruanna was left gaping. "Me?" she said. "What do you mean?"

Elrohir looked down at her in surprise, as if only just realizing she was standing there. "Nothing," he replied a bit too quickly and turned away.

Eruanna grasped the sleeve of his shirt to stay him. "If it was nothing," she whispered, "you would not have said it."

Elrohir looked down at the hand holding onto him. A memory of their first conversation, of his own hand clutching the hem of Eruanna's sleeve, flashed across his mind. She had comforted him that day, when he learned that Arwen wished to travel again to Lórien. And for the first time he had reached out to another, sharing his secrets with Eruanna and listening wholly to hers. It was the moment it began, though he had no idea at the time. His memories flashed forward to the borders of Lothórien, when he and Elladan left Eruanna and their sister in the care of Haldir and the sentries of the Golden Wood.

There was a confession to be made here. "Father did not send us to Arnor on an errand," he said. "It was an excuse we made to appease Arwen."

Eruanna's eyes widened slightly. She shook her head. "I don't understand."

"We left you both at the border," he said, "when we knew you would be safe, for I had no desire to remain in Lothórien." He recalled the argument he had with his brother on the matter and wondered why it was that Elladan always allowed him to win. "I convinced him to lie to Arwen. Elladan hated deceiving her, but I could always sway him to my side. We sought out the Rangers … the orcs, instead. But we should have stayed in the Golden Wood. I should have stayed. Maybe if I had … it would have been different."

Eruanna was unsettled. She feared she knew where he was heading. "Different how?" she asked. And when he turned to look at her she saw she had been correct.

"When we finally returned to the Wood, years had passed. And when we came upon you and Rumil sparring, and I watched you kiss him … I knew any chance I might have had with you had passed."

Eruanna recalled the return of Arwen's brothers well. They had harassed poor Rumil ruthlessly, but in a brotherly way. Eruanna had no idea Elrohir felt anything more for her but friendship, no idea … until one all but forgotten memory surfaced. She had been unsure whether she loved Rumil, whether she would choose to sail or not. And Elrohir had counseled her, told her the answer lay within her heart. And when she confessed her fear that no one would ever love her again, he told her it was not so. And then he'd kissed her. His lips had barely touched the corner of her mouth, before he drew back and bid her farewell. And there had been … something … in his eyes when he asked her if she loved Rumil, but Eruanna had been too young, too naïve to recognize it. She was having trouble understanding now, for that matter, how she had become for Elrohir a reason to remain on the dark shore.

"Elrohir … I … I don't know … what to say …."

"Tell me you love him, and that you always will." He laid his hand on the one clutching him still and squeezed it. "Please. I need to hear you say it."

Eruanna's voice caught in her throat. This was what he needed, and she would give it to him, though his heart might break for hearing it. "I love Rumil – and I always will."

The edges of his lips curled into a pale shadow of a smile. "Thank you," he whispered. He uncurled her fingers from his sleeve and lifted them to his lips. He kissed her hand before returning to the party.

Eruanna remained alone on the balcony. She knew not when her tears began falling, or why her heart felt so sad. Were the tears for Elrohir? For Rumil? Or perhaps for herself? She did not know and feared dwelling on the matter would make it worse. She was wiping the tears away when she heard a voice behind her.

"Eruanna?"

She knew that voice immediately and turned to gaze upon Elladan, amazed that there had once been a time when she could not tell the brothers apart. They had never looked or sounded as differently as they did now. He crossed the balcony in three strides and before Eruanna could find the words to greet him he hugged her tight. His presence was enough to bring back her tears.

"I am so sorry," he whispered. "But he had to tell you, or else he would never know peace."

* * *

_**A/N:**__ That was a long time coming. I know the 'sailing' crowd is cheering, but I couldn't make it all too happy, could I? (I think) I put quite a few hints about Elrohir's feelings for Eruanna into __**'Peredhel'**__, which you may or may not have picked up on. If you haven't read __**'Peredhel'**__, this is one chapter that might feel like it came out of left field and I apologize for that. I did all I could to explain what happened without getting too expository. If you want to dissect Eruanna and Elrohir's scenes together, go to chapters: 14-16, 26 & 27, 32, 45 & 46._


	22. Offerings

**Chapter 22 – Offerings **

_The elves do not give casual gifts. What they offer is a piece of their souls_.

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* * *

_**Valinor  
Fourth Age**

They decided to mourn her.

With the fate of their sons decided Celebrían and Elrond felt it was time to celebrate their daughter's life and her passing from the world. They would do it now, while the news of her joy and her young son was fresh in their minds. They would celebrate her living spirit and pray that when the world was remade they would see their beloved Arwen again.

The announcement was sent out and for days before the ceremony Eruanna saw nothing of Maglor. Each morning she would find a note upon her desk listing her chores for the day and instructing her not to interrupt him. Eruanna welcomed the work as well as the solitude. It distracted her from thinking too hard on Elrohir's recent confession and his sister's fate.

On the morning of the fifth day she arrived at Maglor's office to find him already at his desk. It was shortly before dawn – nearly two hours earlier than Maglor usually arrived to work. He looked pale and tired but there was a rare light in his eyes and Eruanna wondered at its cause.

"Good morning, Prince Maglor," she greeted him.

"Eruanna! Good, you are early," Maglor said while rolling a stack of parchment.

Maglor often eschewed proper greetings and Eruanna showed no offense when he failed to return hers. She was more interested in what he had been up to these many days and why he was glad she arrived early. "Is there something I can do for you, my lord?"

Maglor slid the roll of parchment into an ornate silver case. "I have something for Elrond," he said, standing. "Can you show me the way to his office?"

Eruanna could not have been more surprised by Maglor's announcement. So far as she knew, Elrond and Maglor had not spoken a single word to one another since Maglor's return, and she had been respectful enough not to broach the subject with either one of them.

"I can deliver it to him," she offered, "if you wish."

Maglor shook his head. "It is a private matter," he replied. "And I would rather see it done before the house has risen."

Eruanna nodded. "Of course," she said, and led Maglor out the door. Elrond's people resided in the palace still, though their house was nearly constructed. It was a fair distance between Maglor's study and Elrond's, but they only passed a handful of elves along the way. Eruanna recalled having told Maglor that Elrond begins the day quite early and it was little surprise that he chose to visit him now. When they arrived, Eruanna gestured to Elrond's study.

"Wait here," he said to Eruanna, and she complied, taking a seat on a bench across the hall.

Maglor knocked on the door.

Elrond was surprised by the sound. He did not usually have visitors at such an early hour. "Come," he called, and the door opened. If Elrond had been prepared for the sight that greeted him he may have been able to suppress his expression of shock, then again, he might have not.

Maglor tried to gauge Elrond's reaction to his presence by his expression, but all he could read in his eyes was shock. Maglor stepped inside and closed the door behind him, worried that if he lingered too long on the threshold that Elrond would order him out.

He crossed the room. He stood opposite Elrond who had risen from his seat. They stared at each other for a moment before Maglor dropped his eyes. From the pocket of his robes he withdrew the silver case. He laid it down upon the desk. Elrond glanced at the offering in confusion before his eyes returned to Maglor's.

And Maglor spoke. "For your daughter," he said, and then he departed in haste before Elrond could utter a single word.

Elrond watched Maglor slip from the room – as suddenly and surprisingly as he had come. He sat back in his chair, only realizing after Maglor's departure that he was standing. Hesitantly, he reached for the silver case and turned it over in his hands. Elrond recognized the Noldorin design immediately, but what surprised him was the age of the thing. The case was old, very old, but still in perfect condition. The intaglio was exquisite, truly a work of art. It was a treasure in its own right, but it was only the wrapping for the gift. And Elrond found he was afraid to open it, afraid to see what was hidden inside.

* * *

Eruanna and Elemmírë walked arm in arm through the garden following the reception. Elemmírë was good company, for though he enjoyed music and laughter he was not shy of silence. He knew it was what Eruanna needed and he gave it to her without restraint. Eruanna said very little, for she was finding the idea of Arwen's death much more real than she had in the past. It might have been that a small part of her had believed Arwen would sail with her brothers after Aragorn's passing. But that hope lay shattered now with so many others that had come before.

During their wanderings, they happened upon a group of ellyn talking in a quiet corner of the garden. Two pairs of identical faces turned to greet them. They looked so similar that under different circumstances Eruanna would have laughed. Elladan and Elrohir sat together with their father's uncles, Eluréd and Elurín. Twin births were a rare occurrence among the Eldar, but they were common enough in the noble houses.

Elrond's uncles knew Elemmírë well, and it was Eluréd who introduced the Vanya to his nephews. Eruanna had met the two half-elven lords only once before and Elemmírë made their reintroduction. Each one spoke briefly of how they were acquainted with one another. Elemmírë made no mention of Maglor. He said only that he had met Eruanna through a friend. But it seemed to Eruanna that Eluréd and Elurín knew which friend he meant. The conversation slowly came round to the ceremony held in Arwen's honor.

"The lament was beautiful," said Eruanna. Truly, she had never heard a song so mournful yet captivating.

"Father chose it," said Elladan.

"Your bard, Lindir, did it justice," Eluréd told his nephews.

"I had heard he was a fine musician," said Elemmírë, "but this was the first opportunity I had to hear him sing."

"I did not recognize the piece," said Elurín, turning to Elemmírë. "Who wrote it?"

"I do not know," said Elemmírë, but even Eruanna could see the truth in his eyes.

"You are a terrible liar, even for a Vanya," Eluréd said with a smile. "I would say the style was rather distinctive. What say you, brother?"

Elurín nodded. "I would have to agree."

Elladan and Elrohir wore identical expressions of confusion. But for Eruanna, a light dawned. All this time she had wondered what Maglor had given to Elrond. Could this song have been what the silver case contained?

Elemmírë did not appear overly surprised by the lords' insight. "Maglor's work does have a certain unique quality."

Elladan, having finally realized who the conversation was about, stood with his mouth agape. It was Elrohir who spoke first, in a mixture of shock and unease. "Maglor wrote that lament … for Arwen?"

"For your father, I suspect," Elurín corrected.

"But why?" Elladan asked.

Eruanna remained silent. There was no need for her to offer her thoughts, for Elemmírë offered them in her stead, "He wants forgiveness, but too much has happened for him to expect it from anyone, especially your father. It may be the song is a peace offering, an act of contrition, or a way for Maglor to gauge whether your father might one day forgive him their past."

"He does not deserve forgiveness," said Elrohir with as much conviction as Eruanna had ever heard him speak.

Eluréd shook his head. "To forgive is an act of compassion, Elrohir. It is done – not because people deserve it – but because they need it."

"How can you believe that," Elrohir replied, "when it was his warriors who left you to die?"

Eluréd looked to his brother, unable to find the words to make Elrohir understand.

"It is not as simple as that," said Elurín. "He searched for us a long time after he learned what had happened."

"He would have saved us," said Eluréd, "if he could."

"How do you know that?" asked Elladan.

"One learns much in Mandos' Halls," said Elurín. "We heard him cry out to us in the darkness. We watched him weep over our graves."

"He found you?" Eruanna asked.

"Yes," said Eluréd, "but it was already too late."

* * *

The next morning Eruanna sat at her desk unable to concentrate. She was struggling with far too many thoughts and emotions to focus on her work and it was becoming more than obvious. She shifted papers back and forth without completing any and by late morning Maglor had had enough.

"Why don't you take the rest of the day off," he said.

Eruanna looked up from her piles. "I have to work," she protested, "there is so much…"

But Maglor cut her off. "Whatever it is, it can wait," he said. "And you will hardly get any work done in such a state. Lady Arwen's mourning was only a day ago. There is no need for you to come in today."

It was clear to Eruanna now that Maglor suspected Arwen was the reason for her distraction. If only that was the whole of it, Eruanna might be able to work. As it stood now, there was just too much … too many questions and fears clouding her mind. Eruanna lifted a hand to her face in a troubled gesture. She, like Elemmírë, was a terrible liar. She could agree to leave and let Maglor believe Arwen was the reason for her distress, but when she was no better tomorrow or the next day, he would begin to suspect otherwise.

"It is not only Arwen's death that has me troubled, there are … other things. But perhaps you are right and another day's reflection will allow my thoughts rest."

Maglor frowned. It had been some time since Eruanna had confided her troubles to him and it had happened only once before and under strange circumstances, when they were the only two elves in the city and there was no one else with whom she could speak. Maglor had learned much about his young scribe that night and of the ellon she waited for. That conversation had caused a great deal of ambivalence in his feelings toward Eruanna. He found that he wished to have her gone from his sight and to know her better, as well. But what disturbed him most of all was how the latter desire grew as time passed, just as the former began to fade away. Maglor was not sure who to blame for the changes within him. What he did know was that he had come to enjoy eating lunch with his uncles and accompanying Elemmírë's singing with his grandfather's harp. And there was a morning, not too long ago, when he awoke and for the first time in memory looked forward to the day. How had it happened? He did not know. But he was almost certain that a foolish half-elven child who would not grant him peace or solitude from the moment she arrived at the palace was the one to blame. And Maglor knew he should be grateful, that he should thank her somehow, but what could he possibly do or say in way of repayment?

"What is troubling you?"

Eruanna was surprised by the question and did not know where to begin, or if she should answer the question at all. After a moment's consideration, she said, "They say an elf can give his heart only once. Do you believe that to be true?"

Maglor was thrown by her question, and responded with, "Why do ask?"

"Arwen waited close to three thousand years for Aragorn," she said, "and she sacrificed eternity for him. I have wondered if it is true, and that we are all destined to love only one other. And if we for some reason miss the chance we are given, it is lost forever."

Maglor shook his head. "I do not believe it is that simple. One may love another, and not have that love returned, but only a weak soul allows his heart to dwell on the unattainable."

"But such are the tales of old," said Eruanna, "and those more recent still."

Maglor leaned back in his chair and folded his arms before him. "Those stories are to warn edhil away from such a path, not to imply the path is unavoidable."

Eruanna pondered his answer. It made sense. "You are probably right," she said.

The corner of Maglor's mouth twitched in a rare smile. "My grandfather loved two ellith," said Maglor, "each in their own time. Some say it was folly, but I know he would never have chosen otherwise, and even if he knew all that would follow from that choice, he would make it again."

"How do you know?" she asked.

Maglor's gaze grew distant, as if he were looking into the past. "Because when his eyes rested on Indis, he could see nothing else. Because he loved Fingolfin and Finarfin greatly, and he cherished their children as much as my father's sons."

"That is a comfort," Eruanna said.

Maglor's brow arched in question. "How so?"

Eruanna considered her answer carefully. She had not spoken of Elrohir to anyone – not her father or Marilla or anyone else. Maglor was distant enough from the situation to make him comfortable to confide in. "Elrond's son, Elrohir, chose to sail but he confessed the decision troubled him. He spent many years hunting orc to avenge his mother. He told me there were many reasons for him not to sail but several to remain behind. He told me …" A lump formed in her throat and she found she could not finish that sentence. But there was no need. Maglor did it for her.

"That you were one of those reasons?" he said.

Eruanna nodded, and tried her best to explain. "But I met Rumil, and he found his opportunity to tell me how he felt had passed."

"I see," said Maglor, and then he asked, "Do you love him?"

It was an easy question to answer. "As a brother and a friend – always – but I have never thought of him as anything else."

"Could you have loved him, then, if he had made his feelings known earlier?"

Eruanna closed her eyes. She found it odd that Maglor would arrive so quickly at the question that had plagued her. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "When I first met him I was still very young and he and his brother were … frightening to me, in a way. They were so angry, so full of hate. I could understand the guilt Elrohir felt, but his rage was something I don't think I can ever comprehend. If he had told me, then, of his feelings, I do not know if anything would have become of it. And in all honesty, I do not think he could have loved me, as burdened as he was with guilt for his mother."

"You seem to be clear enough then, on your feelings in this matter."

Yes, it seemed she was. "But I worry for _him_," she said. "I want him to find happiness here."

Maglor had to keep himself from laughing. He could not comprehend how an elleth with a sadness of her own could expend so much energy easing the pain of others. "He will," said Maglor, "if he is strong enough to let go of the past."

Eruanna nodded slowly. She hoped he was and knew that Elrohir would have the whole of his family, his friends and his brother by his side, dragging him forward into the future. A small weight lifted from Eruanna's heart and she felt a bit lighter. She smiled. "He comes from a stubborn family," she said, "a family with great strength of will. I think he will be able to move on."

"I believe you might be right," said Maglor.

Eruanna heard something odd in Maglor's tone. She realized she had forgotten Elrond and Maglor were cousins, and that her statement could just as easily apply to Maglor as Elrohir. Moving on was something they both had in common along with most elves she had met over the years. Some would simply take longer roads than others, but Eruanna had to believe that if they survived the journey, peace would be waiting at the far end.

"The song was beautiful, by the way," she said.

And Maglor was again spun by the change in topic. He could not pretend he didn't understand her meaning. The child was no fool, after all, and she had been with him when he delivered the composition to Elrond. "Thank you," he said.

"The audience was captivated by it," she said, "and a few guessed rightly the composer."

Maglor, despite himself, was curious to know who recognized his work. "Who?"

Eruanna had no idea how Maglor would respond to the answer, but she told him anyway, "Lords Eluréd and Elurín. It seems they both enjoy your work."

Maglor's expression darkened measurably. He had seen the sons of Dior in the palace on several occasions, but had never been properly introduced – not that he would have known what to say if he had been. He had seen them only once before, during their childhood in Middle-earth, after the attack on Doriath, in the dark and snow covered wood…

"I learned a strange thing from them," she continued.

"Is that right?" Maglor replied. He rubbed his hands together as if he could even now feel the cold.

"They told me you found them."

Maglor shook his head. "No," he said, "what I found was only their bodies, their spirits had already departed."

"Why then do the histories say they were lost?" Eruanna asked. "Why lie?"

Maglor closed his eyes but he could not block out the memories of those dark and terrible events – the blood of Doriath on his hands, his brothers dead … and Maedhros…

"Because," said Maglor, "sometimes the truth is worse."


	23. Lost Souls

**Chapter 23 – Lost Souls **

_Dior was a beautiful man – a unique blending of the Firstborn, the Usurpers and the Maiar. Even lying there, with his organs spilled upon the ground, I could not help but find him beautiful. His right hand clutched the sword that had claimed my brother's life. Celegorm lay but a few paces to the right of him. Curufin and Caranthir were also nearby, amid the bodies of Dior's faithful who had slain them. _

_I remember the numbness that came upon me when I found them, these corpses who once had been my kin. I loved my brothers, truly, but I knew they deserved their fates__ – __ and I deserved worse – for holding my tongue, for failing to stay them, and for joining them on this terrible quest. I chose to honor the Oath and this was where it led me – no Silmaril and three brothers dead. I wanted to lie down beside them, but I could not allow myself rest. For even as I watched Maedhros sink to his knees beside Celegorm, I knew the madness would rise again_.

* * *

**Middle Earth  
Doriath  
First Age 506**

Celegorm's body was placed in the ground mere hours before his lieutenants came before Maedhros and his remaining brothers. They had received word of their beloved lord's fate, and in retribution, had abandoned Dior's young sons to die in the wilderness. If they had thought this news would please the princes of the Noldor they were mistaken, for Maedhros' wrath was terrible. He drew his sword and slaughtered the guilty before they could draw another breath. Neither Maglor nor the Ambarussa could have stopped him, had they even the will to make the attempt. Maglor, for his part, watched the execution of Celegorm's servants with indifference. He had seen and caused too much death that day to _feel _anymore. But as Maedhros began to pace the room like a caged beast – he knew the worst might be yet to come. Maglor sent his younger brothers from the room to deal with their warriors while he dealt with Maedhros as only he could.

"Brother, you must calm down."

But Maedhros did not heed him. He continued to pace the length of the room muttering as he had on occasions past. Only now and again did he speak loudly enough for his words to be understood. Maglor had no idea to whom he spoke. Maedhros had at times taken to arguing with himself, their father's ghost, Manwë or Morgoth. At the moment it seemed he spoke to himself.

Maglor tried again. "Maedhros. Please, put down your sword." He would not approach his brother when the ellon was in such a state, not while he was armed.

This time he was heard and wild eyes met Maglor's. There was confusion for a moment before that gaze lowered to the sword and further to the bodies on the floor. He dropped his weapon and it clanged when it hit the floor.

"I killed them."

Maglor knew it was not Celegorm's warriors Maedhros spoke of, despite the fact he gazed in their direction. Before he could utter a false word of comfort, Maedhros spoke again.

"Celegorm was afraid of the dark. Do you think he's still afraid?"

Maglor never knew where Maedhros' troubled mind would lead him but he had learned early on that it was best to stay with him and draw him slowly back to the present. It took a moment before Maglor understood his brother's question. Celegorm? Their younger brother had gotten himself locked in a closet once as a babe. Darkness had been a terror to him long after, but that was millennia ago. "No. He's not afraid of the dark anymore."

"Nor of Caranthir…"

_Dark_ _Caranthir_. He and Celegorm never did get along. And when Caranthir was stirred to fury Celegorm would ever back down. But it did not matter anymore... "Maedhros."

"_He_ was too much like father. No surprise, really, to follow him. They were too much alike."

Curufin and father. Yes, they _were_ too much alike. It had been so from the moment he was born. But now was not the time… "You did not kill our brothers," said Maglor. "They chose their own fates." Maglor had meant these words to calm Maedhros, but instead they stirred his rage.

"No!" he shouted. "_He_ chose our fates. He planned it … as you said. I had plans. _I had plans!_" Maedhros shouted at their father as if he stood before them, but his anger turned quickly to despair. His eyes lowered to his hands. He had scrubbed them clean, but the stain they bore could not so easily be washed away. "Not like this," he whispered. "Not like this…"

"Brother, look at me," he said more forcefully.

Maedhros looked up and met his eyes. "I killed them," said Maedhros, "our children, their children."

"Dior's sons are not dead," said Maglor. "They are out there, in the forest."

Maedhros clutched desperately at the hope his brother's words offered him. "We must find them. Bring them home. Keep them safe."

"We will," said Maglor, "but we must act quickly."

* * *

Maedhros ordered a search for the sons of Dior, but having killed those responsible for abandoning them, there was no way to know where to concentrate their efforts. They searched many miles from the city in all directions – to no avail. The days stretched into weeks and as time passed their hopes of finding the children alive faded. But despite this terrible truth, Maedhros refused to abandon Menegroth. Finding the children had become an obsession, as if Maedhros believed all that had happened in Doriath could be undone if only he could make Dior's sons safe.

Maglor's fear grew as the days passed. He feared the children would never be found and that the last threads of Maedhros' sanity would snap. And so he rode farther and longer than the others in search of Dior's sons and in so doing Maedhros' obsession became his own. He _had_ to find them, or else learn that they were safe – or he might lose Maedhros, too, to their cursed oath.

Twenty days following the sacking of Menegroth a blanket of snow covered the forest floor, and it was bitterly cold, even by the measure of the elves. On that morning, Maglor rode forth with the Ambarussa. Young Amrod and Amras had taken to accompanying their brother on his long rides from the city. They rarely spoke, for what was there to say? All three knew the search to be hopeless, but still they pressed on.

Maglor drove his horse forward and down the slope to the banks of the Esgalduin. The edges of the river were frozen and the snow drifted higher than a man. He rode westward along the river. He tried to ignore the silent presence of his brothers who rode along behind him on the ridge. Maglor had never hated Amrod and Amras' company before, but he did now. Every time he looked upon them he could see them as they once were – innocent children. He could remember every laugh, every smile upon those sweet, angelic faces. It sickened him to think that at this very moment two small children, so similar to those from his memories, were lost in the wilds somewhere. But even worse was the knowledge that those responsible included the ellyn riding with him – those happy children from his memories. And deep down Maglor knew that nothing would ever bring them back – not the children who rode by his side, nor the children they searched for now. They were all dead, murdered by the same oath sworn in Valinor long ago.

Maglor knew he sought only their corpses now, or some word that they had been taken south by the Sindar. But there would be no word, for the elves of Menegroth had fled. There was nothing in Doriath now but snow and wind…

A flash of red upon the ridge caught his eye.

It was too bright, too vibrant for a midwinter's day. He swung his right leg over the saddle and a moment later he was climbing the hill. And there, in a small shelter formed by the roots of a great tree, his search was ended. The red he had spied was the lining of a tiny cloak, caught by the breeze that passed over it. And beneath the cloak … beneath it lay the lifeless forms of two small children. They were nestled close holding each other tight. Their eyes were closed. Their black hair sparkled with frost. Their skin was blue and unnaturally pale. It was a sight at once monstrous and beautiful. _Serene. _He could not take his eyes off them nor could he bring himself to approach. They could have been carved from marble except that no elf would create so terrible an image in stone. These children were no statues. They were real – and they were dead.

Maglor tried desperately to push the last thought aside. These bodies were just that – bodies, shells – their owners had long departed. They were at peace now, the sons of Dior. They were safe, despite the frost upon their faces, despite the wind that danced through their hair.

"Maglor!" Amrod called down to him from the top of the ridge. He and Amras dismounted and climbed down to see what it was their brother had found. They were not prepared for it. The children looked peaceful, as if they had only lain down to sleep, locked in an embrace of comfort and love.

"You slept thus when you were young," said Maglor. "Do you remember?"

Amras did not answer, but certainly, he did.

"_Valar_," Amrod whispered, but whether the word was meant as a prayer or a curse, Maglor knew not. "How could Celegorm's warriors have abandoned them thus?"

Maglor shook his head in anger. "Do not lay the blame on others," he snapped. "_We_ did this. All of us." A long silence followed Maglor's statement.

It was broken only when Amras asked, "What do we do now?"

Maglor sighed deeply and said, "We pray they find warmth in Namo's arms."

"And Maedhros?" said Amrod. "What do we tell him?"

"Nothing," said Maglor. "We tell him nothing."

"But…"

"Go," Maglor commanded. "Prepare your armies. We are leaving."

"But Maedhros?" Amras pressed.

"I will take care of him," Maglor said.

Amrod and Amras shared a look of concern before returning their attention to the children lying in the snow. "We will help you bury them," said Amras.

But Maglor shook his head. "No," he said. "I will do it. Go now. I will follow shortly."

Amrod and Amras left him, but it was awhile before Maglor returned to his horse. Lashed to the side of his saddle was a small shovel. He had carried it with him for two weeks and though he had prayed constantly he would have no need for it, in his heart he knew he would. He found a spot of earth that was not blocked off by the roots of trees and drove the shovel into the hard ground. It was not easy, but an all consuming anger powered his force and so the grave was soon deep and wide enough for two. But that was the easy part. It was so much harder to touch them, to lift their tiny bodies which weighed practically nothing and carry them to the grave. He carried them together, still clinging to each other, partly due to the horror he felt at the thought of prying them apart, and partly out of a wish to preserve them as they had been found. He lined the grave with his own cloak and wrapped the bodies as if for bed for he could not easily find the strength to cover their faces. He began to sing, softly at first. It was a song of grief and mourning written long ago before the Noldor came out of the West. He had written the lament after Alqualondë, for the children left dead there, but he had never found the will to sing it. There was no need. It was a song he had buried deep in his heart along with his pain and the tears he might have shed. But this time, for the sons of Dior he sang his lament. And he wept.

* * *

Maglor had not once challenged his brother's orders since they arrived in Doriath, for it was not his nature to speak openly of his thoughts until the need was great or he saw someone he cared for straying. It was a useful skill – silence. Long ago he had learned its power, for those who hold their tongue are heeded when they finally offer counsel. Maglor found his brother sitting alone in Dior's chambers with a fire that had almost burnt itself out. Ghostly shadows danced on the walls giving the room a terrible air. Even more terrible was the sight of Maedhros, with his face half lit by the firey light. He sat staring into the fire and seemed not to notice Maglor was there.

"It is time to leave Menegroth," said Maglor.

"Not until they are found," Maedhros replied. His voice was weary but firm. He too had ridden many miles in search of Dior's sons. He had ridden so hard and so long without thought of food or water or the bitter cold. No rest he took, and no rest for his horse either, which soon died from ill treatment in the children's pursuit. Maedhros sat now instead, awaiting each report. Maglor had taken to delivering them after more than one messenger had failed to escape this room unscathed.

"They will not be found, brother," said Maglor. "They are long gone from this place."

"You cannot know that!" Maedhros shouted.

But Maglor remained calm. "I tell you, they were taken away by the Sindar who fled south or by some wood elves who wander free."

"But if they are lost…"

"We would have found some sign of them if they were here. A footprint, a scrap of cloth … but there is nothing and two children alone could not evade our trackers. They have fled with the others."

"Do you really think so?"

Maedhros sounded desperate, as if the fate of the world rested on what answer his brother might give. "I tell you," said Maglor, with all the conviction he could muster, "they are at this very moment cradled in loving arms, safe from harm. I would stake my life on it." And he could, for it was not a lie. But there was no need to tell Maedhros that it was Dior and Nimloth who cradled them now or that the warmth surrounding them came from the fires of Mandos' Halls.

When Maedhros remained silent, Maglor crouched beside the chair where he sat. He pressed again. "Maedhros, we must leave this place. There is no telling what Dior's allies are planning. We must retreat to safety. Let us depart."

A long silence followed. It seemed to Maglor that his brother's thoughts warred with themselves, but slowly Maedhros came around. "Yes …," he whispered. "Yes. We must go now."

Relief washed over him. "I will tell the Ambarussa," said Maglor. He rose and then he headed for the door. He looked back before pulling on the handle. "We will visit our brothers' graves one last time."

Maedhros, staring off into the darkness, nodded once. "Yes. We should do that … say goodbye."

Maglor left Maedhros in darkness to find his youngest brothers waiting for him in the hall. They followed on his heels as he led them away from Dior's chamber.

"What did you tell him?" whispered Amrod.

"What he needed to hear."

"You lied?" Amras said, aghast.

"He will never forgive you," said Amrod.

Maglor halted in his tracks and turned swiftly to face his brothers, fixing them with a meaningful glare. "He will never have to. He will never know. Swear it – _now_."

The Ambarussa shared a look. They cared not for deception, but they knew in their hearts that hiding the truth from Maedhros was the only thing they could do. "We swear."

Maglor's face softened measurably. He laid one hand on each of his brothers' shoulders. "Good," he said. "Now spread the word. We leave tonight."

* * *

_**A/N:**__ Thanks to WendWriter for the helpful beta. Now, I know some readers will be disturbed by Maedhros' psychotic break, but it is part of my vision of his journey towards suicide. You are welcome to disagree and rant about it in my story forum thread if you wish. We can discuss other views there, but don't expect to change my mind. _


	24. Tales to Tell

**Chapter 24 – Tales to Tell**

_Take a seat by the fire and listen to the old ones speak. If you are patient, you will catch a glimpse of the truth in their stories of days long past, for they speak of how things were, not how things were written.

* * *

_

**Valinor  
Fourth Age**

Elrond greeted his guests with his wife at his side. It was the first time that they had played host together in more than five centuries. _Welcome to the House of Elrond._ It was a new house, yes, not the same as the first but similar in many respects. The same architects drew up the plans and laid down the stones, the artwork was the very same, as were the tapestries and the books. The voices which echoed in the hall were known to him for the most part. Only now and then did he struggle to place a face or voice with a name. It struck him as odd when he realized he had not felt truly at home in Valinor until this night. His eyes swept across the crowd. They rested briefly on his sons. Eruanna was on Elladan's arm. Elrohir trailed behind them. There was a shadow upon his younger son's heart that would not lift. Elrond had tried to reach out, to discover what troubled him, but had been politely turned aside. Elrohir was not ready to speak of it, whatever it was, and he would not ask Elladan to betray his brother's trust.

Elrond, however, was no fool. He noted with curiosity how the relationship between Eruanna and his sons had changed, though there were few others who would notice the difference. Elladan escorted her tonight but Elrond could not recall a single time in the past when he had done so. Elladan had always been Arwen's dinner partner and Elrohir, Eruanna's. But it was not merely a matter of place settings. Elrohir did not dance with her either – not this night or any other. And since his arrival, Elrond had caught a flash of some dark emotion in his son's eyes when his gaze fell upon her. Elrond did not like to speculate about the thoughts and feelings of others. He cared little for wild guessing – but he was no fool.

A light tug on the hem of his sleeve drew his attention back to his wife. Celebrían smiled up at him. "Where did you drift off to, darling?"

He chuckled softly. "Nowhere I wish to dwell tonight."

She took his arm in hers and gave it a firm squeeze. "Good. I want you here with me tonight."

Her warm smile and sparkling eyes washed away the worry that had begun to form in his heart. "Only for tonight?" He lifted a hand to brush a strand of silver hair behind her ear. "I had hoped we would be together forever."

"May your wish be granted," a new voice answered from the doorway.

Elrond's eyes shifted from his wife's face to their guest. The words of welcome he was prepared to speak caught in his throat. He stood an arm's length from another silver-haired elleth, one he had not seen once in the last two ages. "Nan…" he caught himself before the word was fully formed. He did not know quite why, but calling her _'mother'_ felt like a betrayal with Elwing seated across the hall. "Anira," he began again and took her hand in his. He had meant to maintain proper etiquette and kiss her hand, but he could not stop himself from pulling her into his arms and hugging her tightly. "Anira." He repeated her name again softly, his eyes glistening with unexpected tears.

Celebrían's eyes sparkled likewise. She had kept this particular guest a secret and the outpouring of emotion at their reunion was proof enough her decision had been right. "Lady Anira and I thought to surprise you. She had not much time to speak with you at the Ringbearer's Feast and has agreed to stay with us awhile."

Elrond released the lady a moment later and turned again to his wife. He took her hand in his and placed a kiss on her palm. "Thank you," he said before returning his attention to Anira. A wave of guilt washed over him suddenly, a guilt that had been absent before now. "I am sorry I did not make time to visit you sooner, I should have…"

But she waved away his apology and took his arm instead. "Let us have none of that nonsense, child. You have had more important matters to deal with since your arrival than calling on your old nursemaid. You're in Valinor, now. We have all the time in the world to get reacquainted."

* * *

Eruanna had chosen to retain her residence at the palace, but Erestor issued her rooms in the House of Elrond as well. She would have need of them tonight, no doubt. The celebration was bound to last through the night and into the early morning. The guest list included those who had lived in Imladris, as well as family and friends from all corners of Valinor. An hour into the festivities she had lost count of how many edhil she'd met. Erestor took it upon himself to introduce her to those who had passed away or sailed before she joined Elrond's house.

It was shortly after midnight when Eruanna caught sight of Elrond while she and Elladan were talking with friends. It took her a moment to realize that the elleth he sat with was not his wife, but another silver-haired lady. Eruanna recognized her face immediately when the elleth turned briefly in her direction.

"_Valar," _she gasped.

Elladan followed the direction of her gaze. "What is it?" He spied his father speaking to an elleth he did not know. "Do you know her?"

"No … I … not exactly…"

"Know who?" Elrohir had appeared beside the pair with a drink for his brother.

Elladan took the glass and gestured in their father's direction so that now all three of them watched Elrond and his guest. They sat closer together than a pair of strangers would and as they laughed the elleth reached out and took their father's hand. Neither Elrohir nor Elladan could recall a single soul – other than their mother – whose manner was so at ease in their father's company.

Elladan prodded Eruanna's side with an elbow. "Well, don't keep us in suspense."

Eruanna's attention shifted from Elrond to his sons. They looked at her expectantly. "Her name is Anira. She is Lord Círdan's daughter."

"Really?" Elrohir's surprise was evident in his voice and his gaze returned immediately to the lady's face. He could see the resemblance now, of course, and he was not completely unaware that the former Lord of Mithlond had children. "I heard he had children in Valinor, but I was not aware our father knew them."

"Nor was I," Elladan added, still watching the pair laughing together across the hall. "I have not seen father laugh so freely in a long while. I wonder what they are speaking of."

"Shall we find out?" Elrohir asked but did not wait for an answer before heading off to join their father. Elladan and Eruanna followed on his heels. By the time they reached Elrond's table Celebrían had returned to her husband's side. It was she who greeted her sons and Eruanna.

"Good evening mother, father." Elrohir nodded his head to his parents and Anira before leaning down to place a kiss on his mother's cheek. As he rose his attention turned to Anira. "I do not believe we have been introduced."

Elrond smiled. "No. I don't believe you have. This is Lady Anira, daughter of Círdan and my mother's cousin. She helped raise my brother and I while our father was at sea. Anira, these are my sons, Elladan and Elrohir. And this is Eruanna, a child of my house."

If Eruanna or the twins had found this introduction surprising they hid it well. It was, after all, a rare occasion indeed when Elrond spoke of his brother or his childhood with others. It was a tender subject, one about which Elladan and Elrohir had learned long ago not to ask. But things were different now. They were in Valinor, among elves who were ancient long before their father was born. And the sons of Elrond had been delighted to learn a few secrets about their loved ones since their arrival. Aware of the opportunity at hand, Elladan wasted no time.

"You must have some interesting tales of our father, then."

Anira's brown eyes sparkled with laughter. "Many, I should think."

"Several I'd rather you not share," Elrond said only partly in jest. The lady, however, waved away his concern.

"Shall I tell them of the time Elros convinced you to taste a mud pie?"

Elrohir grinned widely at his brother in remembrance of a similar incident from their youth. Amusement shone from his eyes for the first time all night. "Please do," he said, and took a seat beside Anira. Elladan and Eruanna joined him. Elrond sighed, resigning himself to the embarrassment that would follow. He sat through three more tales of childhood mishaps before excusing himself. He and Celebrían needed to see to their other guests and Anira would be staying with them for awhile. His sons, however, spent much of the evening with Anira listening to tales of their father's past. Eruanna sat with them, committing the stories to memory. And like all stories of the past, now and again Eruanna caught a detail that didn't quite fit into the annals of history.

* * *

Eruanna spent the remainder of the week visiting with her father and the other members of Elrond's house before returning to the palace. She arrived at the office she shared with Maglor early the following morning, knowing full well there would be a pile of contracts waiting for her. It was mid-morning before Maglor appeared and she greeted him with a smile and a nod. He asked after her health and that of hers and Elrond's families. She answered, but assiduously avoided any mention of Anira. It was far too early in the day to broach that subject. Afterwards, they returned to their usual companionable silence which lasted through most of the day. The sun was setting before half of Eruanna's work was done, and she exhaled deeply at the sight of her next day's work already piled high.

"I think that's enough for today. Here." He handed her one of the two glasses of wine he'd poured. It was a newer custom between them – sharing a drink while they tidied up for the day. It was a small thing, really, but it meant so much. They would speak of mundane things. Sometimes Eruanna would tell of her plans for the evening or her days off. Maglor rarely offered up such information, and sometimes she wondered how often she was the first and last person he spoke with each day. It made the question she wished to ask him now a bit more difficult – and that was saying something, given all the admittedly intrusive questions she'd asked him before. But this time what she wanted to know was more personal to her as well, given it dealt with Elrond, an ellon who had taken her in and made her family. Was she ready to ask him about Sirion? And if she did, would he tell her the truth? She was almost certain he had not lied to her before, or at least, he had given her what _he_ remembered of the past. But would he speak of this? There was only one way to find out.

"I met Lady Anira the other night – at Elrond's house."

The mood in the room changed immediately. Maglor – who had been about to place a ledger on a shelf – froze, holding the book in mid-air. He exhaled deeply before finishing his task.

He did not look at her when he uttered, "Did you?"

"Yes." Eruanna leaned against her desk, bracing herself before she could continue. "She has many stories to tell of Elrond and his brother. Some from when they were small children …" She picked up an old quill and turned it in her hands nervously. "And some from when they were not so young. She spoke of one mishap during an archery lesson when they were twenty."

Maglor's voice had turned several degrees colder when he responded. "Your point?"

Eruanna studied Maglor for a moment. He still had not turned away from the archive shelf. She did not need to see his face to see the tension in his shoulders or hear the anger rising in his voice. She had never really been afraid of Maglor, not before. His fits of anger, though emotionally hurtful, were merely that. She had never feared for her physical safety. But something … something in the way he stood there told her there was a slight chance she might need to run for the door. She walked slowly across the room, putting herself between Maglor and the exit. It might be a foolish action, but part of her wasn't so sure, and if she had learned anything from Glorfindel it was to trust her instincts.

"They were with you then, were they not? Elrond was six when you sacked Sirion and sixty-five when he was freed – if that much of the histories are true."

Maglor nodded once. "They are."

"Then she was with you as well."

Maglor said nothing to this but he did turn around and return to his desk. He threw back his drink and poured himself another. He moved to the window and looked out over the garden watching the sun go down. Eruanna moved closer, one small step at a time, until she stood opposite his desk.

"When I was a child, Elrond would sometimes share stories with me of his youth. He wanted me to know I was not alone and that he understood me. But I always sensed that much of his tale remained hidden, the same as all else in history."

_History._ Sometimes Eruanna wondered why the Eldar bothered recording it at all when it preserved only select pieces of the truth. Eruanna could not begin to count the number of songs and stories written about Lúthien and her capture by two of Maglor's younger brothers, and yet of Anira… "There is little written about the years Elrond and his brother were held captive – and nothing at all about Anira. Why is that?"

"How should I know?" Maglor snapped, rounding on her now. "It was not I who wrote your histories. Perhaps you should ask Elrond. If these tales cannot be found in his library it is because _he_ failed to record them."

Eruanna had been prepared for his anger but not for where he would place the blame. _On a child?_ "Or maybe Elrond was too young to remember, or to fully understand what had happened to them."

"Or perhaps he wished to forget," Maglor offered.

"Maybe," Eruanna conceded. But somehow she doubted it. There were some details, after all, that had found their way into books – perhaps more telling than those left out. "It is written that you cared for them, that you loved them – Elrond and his brother. I do not believe Elrond would have allowed that to be recorded into history, were it not true. And if he truly wished to forget, I doubt he would have shared that secret with anyone."

Maglor knew of Elrond's account of him as recorded by the lore masters. How could he not? They were the only kind words recorded of him in all of Middle-earth's history. They should be a comfort to him, shouldn't they? To know that one living person remembered he was not a complete monster. But somehow Elrond's testimony had the opposite effect. Because he knew he didn't deserve Elrond's kind words – true or otherwise. He might have loved Elrond and Elros, but he hurt them just the same. All the kind words in the world could not change that. "They were the closest I ever came to having children. We destroyed their world when we sacked Sirion. I tried to put the pieces back together again."

"And Anira?"

Maglor lifted a hand to his temple in a poor attempt to hold back the pain forming in his head. "She was with Elwing and her sons when we found them."

Eruanna waited a long time for Maglor to tell her more, but as the silence lengthened, curiosity got the better of her. "And?" she whispered.

Maglor's gaze fell upon Eruanna and he studied her silently for a long time. It was a strange moment for him, for he had never fully acknowledged Eruanna's questioning before now. He had joked about it, yes, but had never stopped to consider what she would do with the pieces of his past that he unveiled to her. Why this tale should make him see her more clearly was a mystery. Perhaps it was not the tale itself, but merely the time and place or the color of the sky as the sun was setting. Whatever the cause, he saw her now. Not a child, nor as innocent or foolish as he once guessed. A keen mind, stout heart and generous soul lived within her and if he continued to speak, it was because he wanted to tell her, wanted to share the truth of his past with her. It would be a conscious decision. He could not pretend otherwise. Not anymore.

He walked over to her desk where she'd left her glass half-empty. He refilled it and held it out to her. She approached him slowly and took the glass from his outstretched hand. He regarded her thoughtfully. "Do you really want to know what comes after 'and'?"

She did. And she didn't. But somehow neither felt like an appropriate answer. "Do you _want_ to tell me?"

"No," he said. And the corners of his mouth twitched before forming into a troubled smile. "And yes. I have told you everything else. Why not this?"

"You don't have to."

Maglor shook his head and a bark of humorless laughter escaped him. "Of course I don't." He knew that. He knew it all too well. And yet for some reason he felt compelled to answer whenever Eruanna asked something of him. "What do you think of me?" The question was out of his mouth before he thought better of it.

"Pardon?" Eruanna asked, confused.

Maglor heard the uncertainty in her voice and asked again – more clearly the second time. "Do you think me a monster? A fool?"

"I …" Eruanna hesitated a moment before deciding on an honest answer. "I think you are both – and more."

Maglor laughed. "What else am I then?"

The words poured out of Eruanna's mouth. "Loyal … spiteful … caring … bitter … brave-hearted – and a coward, too."

"Truly," he nodded. "But why do you care? Why ask what happened at Sirion? The tale has already been recorded. What difference would my version of events make?"

"No difference to the historians, most likely," she conceded. "But to some – yourself, and those who were there – it might make all the difference."

Maglor looked away again, out the window, across the garden and beyond upon the fair city. "Do you share my secrets with the whole world?"

"No, I don't." Only once had Eruanna asked a friend about Lady Anira and she had not told Marilla why, but somehow the clever elleth had put two and two together. Eruanna hardly thought that counted. But aside from their one discussion, she had not shared any secret of Maglor's life with another.

"Why not?" He was genuinely curious to know why she kept her silence.

"Because – they are not my stories to tell."

She had said this so simply that Maglor had no doubt she believed it to be true. And perhaps he had known this from the very beginning, from the first time they ever met. Was this the reason why he felt at ease while talking to her – while sharing his secrets? Because she understood that it was his tale to tell. All she would do is listen, and that was exactly what he needed – someone to listen to the story of his life without passing judgment upon him. This was what he had needed for the last seven thousand years – a soul like Eruanna. Someone to listen. And by the grace of the Valar, she was there.

"Have a seat, and I will tell you what happened in Sirion."

* * *

_**A/N: **__If you haven't read my author page, be aware I'm on semi-permanent hiatus, but I had time to wrap up a Thanksgiving present. Also, I'm going off the canon track here into gap-filler territory. More details in my __**Stories**__ forum if you want them. _


	25. Sirion

**Chapter 25 - Sirion**

_Elwing escaped the sacking of Doriath with our father's Silmaril, but it was thirty years before we acted upon the knowledge. In the intervening years, my younger brothers wandered the wilderness while once again I cared for Maedhros. He was ill a long while following Doriath, twisted with guilt for our crimes and the loss of our brothers. His health returned slowly, and with it the weight of our Oath. When it became a burden too great to bear, he wrote to Elwing and her people, demanding they return the Silmaril to him. I knew what their answer would be before I read her letter. They would not hand over to the sons of Fëanor that which so many of their own had died to defend. And so Maedhros called our brothers home to him and we declared war against our kinsmen once more._

* * *

**Middle Earth**  
**First Age 538**

The elves of Sirion were defeated and in exchange the two youngest Fëanorions lay dead among the ashes. There was no time for the elder brothers to weep for them. They stepped over the bodies that had once been Amrod and Amras and fought on. Maglor was Maedhros' shadow, covering his brother's back as they cut through Elwing's warriors one by one. They fought their way to the river where Eärendil's tower overlooked the bay. There was no knowing if Elwing sheltered within, but the number of guards defending the gate was evidence enough to press on.

Maglor, himself, had long since ceased caring how the battle would end. He fought only to keep Maedhros alive and in the hope that if they found Elwing, their quest to reclaim the Silmaril would be complete. They reached the tower guard and fought their way inside, losing one warrior for every five of Sirion that fell. Maglor, Maedhros and two of their most trusted warriors cut their way through a narrow hall to a heavily guarded room. When its protectors lay dead Maedhros kicked down the door.

Screams greeted them, children's screams. Maglor's eyes found them in the arms of a silver-haired elleth. She knelt in the corner, clutching two raven-haired children to her breast. Maglor's breath was driven from him the moment she lifted her face.

_Anira._

Maglor recognized her at once, though he had not seen her for hundreds of years. He barely had time to acknowledge her when movement near the great window drew his gaze. Maglor had never seen the Lady Elwing before, but he knew her immediately. She possessed the same unique beauty of her father and the Silmaril hung around her neck.

Maedhros stepped further into the room flanked by Maglor. The warriors who came with them held back, guarding the door. Maedhros glanced at Anira and the children before turning all his fury on Elwing. "You should have answered my letter."

Elwing remained silent. Wide eyes stared blankly at Maedhros, her back pressed against the wall. She inched slowly towards the great window opposite the door. Maglor knew the window was her destination, and he knew also that neither he nor Maedhros would reach her in time should she decide to jump. Maedhros was about to take another step towards her but Maglor laid a hand on his shoulder to stop him. He took a step closer to stand at his brother's side, drawing the elleth's attention.

In a calm, gentle voice he spoke to her. "Elwing, show yourself wiser than your father. Give us the Silmaril."

The elleth shook her head furiously, her right hand clutching the jewel. She reached the edge of the window. Eyes shifting between Maedhros and Maglor, she stepped onto the ledge. Her voice and spirit trembled. "You will never lay a hand on it. Never."

Maglor lifted his hands slowly in a placating gesture. He could see the madness in her eyes, had dealt with it before. He thought to reason with her, but Maedhros was far beyond the point of reasoning.

"Enough of this!" Maedhros roared.

Three long strides and Maedhros stood before Anira. She screamed as he ripped one of the children from her arms. Anire pleaded with Maedhros, begging him not to hurt the boy, but her cries fell on deaf ears. She could only hold the second child tighter as Maedhros dragged the first across the room by its arm.

The boy in Maedhros' grasp screamed and fought his captor, but even with only one good hand there was no escaping him. Maedhros pinned the boy to his chest with his right arm and drew a dagger with his left, pressing the blade against the pale tender skin of his neck. Maedhros' furious eyes met Elwing's – her madness having unleashed his own. "The Silmaril, Elwing. Give it to me! Or I swear by all the Valar he will die."

Elwing stared at the knife pressed against her son's throat, her voice a whisper, her words meant for her and her alone. "Like my father, my mother, my brothers. You will kill us all."

"No," Maglor stepped forward once more, in a vain effort to reason with her. "No more have to die today. Gives us our father's jewel and we will withdraw. No harm will come to you – or your sons."

Elwing's eyes were fixed upon the knife held at her son's throat and the thin line of blood where it rested against his skin. She gave no sign of having heard him.

"_My babies." _

The crushing weight of despair in her voice told Maglor there was no reaching her now. In her eyes, her sons were already dead. Before Maglor or Maedhros could move Elwing let go of the window frame and fell backward over the edge.

A roar erupted from Maedhros' throat the moment Elwing let go. He threw the child to the floor, lunging for his mother, but he was too late. Maedhros watched, transfixed, as she fell a hundred feet into the rushing river below. Strong currents bore her and the Silmaril away towards the sea. She was gone, and with her, their father's precious jewel.

Maglor stood motionless, speechless, staring at the window where only seconds ago Elwing and the Silmaril stood. He vaguely recalled the echo of Anira's scream when Elwing fell. She reached out to the child crawling towards her across the floor and drew him to her chest, holding the boy and his brother close.

Maedhros' rage consumed him. At long last, a Silmaril. He had been close enough to touch it! And now. _Now!_ He drew his sword. He would send that mongrel's brats with her into death. He crossed the small space between the window and the corner where a nursemaid huddled with the children. He lifted his sword and brought it down upon them in one deadly stroke. It would have sliced through the elleth and children both had Maglor's blade not deflected the blow.

Maglor had followed the path of his brother's anger and stopped him before he could land the blow. "No brother!" Maglor shouted, throwing Maedhros into the wall with some force. "We need them!"

Maedhros was not interested in his brother's words. "I promised her they would die!"

"Listen to me!" Maglor commanded with all the strength left in him. "What do you think Gil-galad and Círdan will do when they learn of what has happened here? Or Eärendil when he returns? They will come for us, unless we have some threat to keep them at bay."

Maedhros' laughter was cruel and biting, but his fury began to ebb. "You think these mongrels will stay Círdan's hand?"

Maglor shook his head. "The children are for Gil-galad and Eärendil. She will hold off Círdan."

At the word _she_ Maedhros, for the first time, took account of the elleth shielding Elwing's children. He stepped closer to her and lifted her chin with the tip of his blade. Maedhros studied her face. He had seen her once, centuries ago…

"I remember you," he said at last, "at Fingolfin's Feast. Círdan's daughter. My brother serenaded you." He lowered his sword. "Well then, at least one of us will leave this city with something he desired."

Maedhros moved to the door shouting: "Bring them, quickly," to Maglor and his warriors.

Maglor sheathed his sword, releasing a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He sent Maedhros' lieutenant after him and beckoned his own lord and servant, Arandur, to him. Maglor took a knee before Anira and reached out to take the child nearest to him, but Anira would not allow it.

"Don't touch him!" she shouted, tightening her grip on the child.

Maglor was not the least surprised by level of venom in her voice. But he did not have time to argue. "I will not harm them – or you. But we must leave Sirion. Now."

Anira's eyes were full fury. Her voice trembled with it, and her hands balled into fists. "You can lie to yourself, Fëanorion, but not to me!" For a moment she looked ready to strike him, before her face fell and her eyes flooded with fear, pleading. "There is no reason for this. The jewel is gone now, beyond anyone's reach. Leave us here. Let this be the end of it. Please."

Maglor looked down at the children and thought of his brothers – corpses in Doriath and now Sirion. "It will never end. It will go on and on until we or the jewels are turned to dust." Maglor reached out once more for the boy Maedhros had terrorized, able to tell him from the other only by the thin line of blood crusting on his neck. "I will carry him."

Anira had no wish to give the child up, but she was given no choice in the matter. He took the boy from Anira's arms, but this time the child did not struggle. Maglor glimpsed the paralyzing terror in his eyes before the boy shut them tight.

Maglor stood and Arandur lifted Anira gently from the ground with the second boy still in her arms. Maglor motioned for Arandur to follow him with the elleth and child. The warrior kept his hand firmly clamped on Anira's arm as they followed Maglor down the hall and stairs. By the time they reached the front entrance of the fortress tower, their company was ready to depart. The battle within the walls was won but a new battle raged outside the gate.

"We must fight our way free," Maedhros informed his brother. But before mounting his horse he approached Anira. "Give me that little beast." He took the second child from her arms and this one did scream, but when Maedhros roared, "_Be silent!"_ silent the child fell, though his sobs could be heard long after.

Maglor turned to Arandur. He was Maglor's most trusted lord and soldier. "Keep her safe," he said of Anira, who appeared frozen with fear at the thought of the children riding with the Fëanorions. She knew well the danger should one of Elwing's warriors aim a blow at the lords and miss. That was the point, of course. Elwing's warriors would not attack a rider carrying one of their Lord and Lady's beloved children. Or so Maedhros hoped. Maglor could only pray his brother was right.

When the company was mounted Maedhros cried out, "Cut down any who bar our path – be they friend or foe."

_And as it was in the beginning, so it would forever be. _Maglor obeyed his brother's command, cutting down every ellon he passed until they were through the gate and their company rode free.

* * *

Lord Arandur had only his blood stained cloak to wrap them in, but it would have to do for the night. "They are cold. Here." He knelt down beside the elleth and tucked the cloak in around the children clinging to her skirt.

The children shrank from him, hiding their faces in the elleth's skirt, but a touch of the lady's hand seemed to calm them. She pulled the cloak higher to cover their heads. "They chill easily," she whispered and then added a soft, "Thank you."

Arandur nodded solemnly before rising to fetch them dinner. He returned to the center of the camp where the lower ranking warriors were preparing food for the rest. There was a line of elves waiting, but they stepped aside for Arandur until he reached the front. It did not take long for him to gather enough rations for himself and his three charges.

He could not have been gone for more than five minutes, but upon his return he was greeted with a disturbing sight. The children lay nestled close to the elleth as before but now their eyes were closed as if in death. For a moment, he believed the elleth had done something terrible to them in the short time he was gone. But a second later the sound of soft, steady breathing reached his ears.

"Are they asleep?"

Anira nodded. It was not the first time she'd seen that look of concern for the children in another elf's eyes. While Elwing's servants were accustomed to their strangeness, she knew these elves had never seen a peredhel – not alive, anyway.

Arandur shook his head. "How strange." He continued to watch the children sleep even as he seated himself across from them. He held one bowl out to the elleth. It contained lembas and an assorted mixture of nuts and dried fruit. A meager meal, but the company would not risk building a fire while there was a chance of being tracked by warriors from Sirion.

Anira took the food from him without thought of protest. Elrond and Elros would need it when they awoke. She took a small bite of lembas despite her lack of appetite. They would need her as well, and she would need to be strong if she hoped to protect them.

Anira watched the warrior watching them. He was highborn – one of the Noldor from across the sea. She could tell by the light that still shone from his eyes. Even after the atrocities he and his brethren had committed, that light could not be extinguished. He possessed the same eternal beauty gifted to all the Firstborn – except for one flaw. A scar. It was old and faded, but clear enough to elven eyes even under starlight. It ran along the left side of his throat where someone or something had attempted to part his head from his body. A tiny part of her wished that someone had succeeded, and the shame of wishing such a fate on her own kind caused her steady gaze to falter. Her eyes fell to the children who were sleeping fitfully in her arms. But they were warm under the kinslayer's cloak and she was grateful for that if nothing else.

"Why is it they sleep as if in death?"

The question broke Anira from her silent reverie. She lifted her eyes to find the warrior's fixed upon Elrond. A mixture of concern and curiosity shone from them. "It is their mortal heritage. Men sleep thus, and so do the half-elven."

The warrior nodded at her explanation and fell silent, attending to his own meal while Anira finished hers.

Arandur's silence was filled with many thoughts – mostly disjointed, for he was so very tired. Tired of war, of blood of death – of the sound of screams and weeping children. He was charged with guarding and protecting his lord's prisoners, but he had no desire to look upon the frightened faces of these half-elves or the elleth who cared for them. And now Arandur was certain he should have tried harder to convince Maglor to leave the elleth and children behind. He should have argued the point with Maglor more strongly. It was his duty as steward of Maglor's house, to question his lord's actions if he found fault in them. And he found more fault in this decision than any other his lord had ever made.

* * *

They had stopped near a stream to break and rest the horses. Arandur watched the elleth clean a cut on one of the boys' throats. He rubbed his own scar instinctively. There had been some black poison on the blade that cut him so the wound never fully healed. Someone had held a blade to the child's throat not hours earlier and Arandur had one guess who that someone could be.

Maglor came up beside him and cast his gaze in the same direction as his steward's. "You will be their guardian on this journey – and when we return."

Arandur turned to face Maglor and shook his head. "We should leave them here, my lord, while we are still within the borders of their land."

Maglor frowned. "We cannot do that," he said and started to walk away.

Arandur followed him arguing with his lord in hushed tones. "But my lord … Maglor … _Makalaurë!_"

Maglor turned at the sound of his name. Few would dress him so familiar and fewer still by his mother-name. Arandur had done so only a handful of times and each moment had been a pivotal one. And Maglor listened, if only because Arandur was the last voice Maglor knew he could trust.

Arandur knew he had his lord's undivided attention. He had stepped beyond the boundaries of servant and Maglor was allowing it. For his friendship and loyalty, Maglor would listen – so Arandur knew he must strike hard so that his words might count. "No good will come of this, my lord. No good at all. Our quest was for the Silmaril, and now it is gone. This madness can end, here, now, if you will only let it."

Maglor shook his head. "We need them. We need the protection their presence offers."

"What protection?" Arandur asked. "You wager that Círdan and Gil-galad will not attack if we hold their loved ones hostage? We have slaughtered their kin before. Why would they believe no harm will come to these three? What proof of safety do you think they will accept?"

Maglor had thought of an answer to this already. "We will send messengers with a letter in Anira's hand assuring them."

"You think she will agree to that?"

Maglor returned his gaze to Anira and the children clinging to her skirt. "I am sure of it."

Arandur was not so easily convinced. "And if they decide to attack us despite your proof, what then? Would you put them to the sword? Because I tell you now that is one order I will not obey or stand by while it is carried out."

Maglor reacted to his second's promise of treason with nothing more than a small frown. "You would defy me, then?"

Arandur nodded, standing his ground, ready to face the consequences with resolve. "In this … yes, I would. It has to end. The Silmaril is lost, your father and brothers are dead, and we both know Maedhros is …," here Arandur almost uttered the word _'insane'_ but thought it perhaps a step too far. Instead he chose, "unwell."

Maglor closed his eyes and breathed a tired sigh. He cast his sight on his brother. Maedhros was in a mood so terrible none but Maglor would dare approach him. "I know," Maglor admitted. "And I fear he might …." But whatever Maglor feared his brother might do died before it reached his lips. He turned to Arandur, fixing him with an appraising gaze. "That is why I leave their protection to you. I cannot be with my brother at all times, but you can be with them, ensuring their safety."

"I don't…" Arandur stole a glance at Maedhros who sat alone arguing with himself. "What is it you wish me to do?"

"Protect them," said Maglor, "from everyone – _anyone_ – that would harm them."

"Even you?"

A ghost of a smile reached Maglor's lips. "Even me."

Arandur thought long on this broader mandate Maglor had given him. His lord had effectively given him permission to kill both Maedhros and himself to protect his charges. Arandur was not sure if that made him feel better about the situation – or worse. "I will remember you said that."

"So will I."

Arandur knew there was nothing left to discuss. The conversation was over. "I still say this is not a good idea, my lord."

Maglor nodded once. "And one day we will discover if I should have listened," he said, before moving off to sit at his brother's side.

* * *

Arandur was certain time would prove him right and for more reasons than one. He had an excellent memory and had instantly recognized the sea elf's daughter when they entered Elwing's hall. He had accompanied Maglor to Fingolfin's Feast and remembered well the song Maglor wrote for her. Caranthir and others had made unkind jests about Maglor's lowborn infatuation, but the prince had not been alone among the Noldor in appreciating Anira's beauty. Even now, after the horrors of the day, the elleth's silver tresses were a marvel to behold – glittering as they did with the light of the stars, framing a face as lovely as any Nolda Arandur had ever known. Arandur was certain Maglor thought the lady just as beautiful, and he feared his lord's long buried infatuation was, in part, the reason she was with them now.

Arandur set his bowl down and shifted to a more comfortable position from which he could keep an eye on his charges. The elleth glanced briefly in his direction but she said nothing to him, and that suited Arandur fine at present. Small, delicate hands tucked his cloak around the children, ensuring they would remain snug and warm before her eyes glazed over. Arandur spent most of the night watching her sleep, and when he, himself, dozed, his dreams were of silver and starlight.


	26. Baby Steps

**Chapter 26 – Baby Steps**

_I held my mother's hands when I took my first steps. It is how each of us is taught, one foot in front of the other. Those first few are clumsy, awkward steps – impossible without the support of one we love and trust. _

_Baby steps. _

_I take them now, as I did then, and pray if I should fall some hand will reach out to catch me. _

* * *

**Valinor  
Fourth Age**

Maglor sat on the balcony with his harp in his lap, plucking its strings absentmindedly. He had not been himself for days, ever since he shared his memories of Sirion with Eruanna. _Not been himself. _The thought was laughable. Did he even know who he was anymore? Why he was here? What he was doing? Maglor pondered these questions for many days, but the answers continued to elude him. His sole comfort – if it could be called that – was the knowledge that in all his confusion, Maglor was certain of one thing; he had reached a point where his path would grow markedly steeper. Eruanna could drag him no further. The next step was his, and his alone.

"You are quieter than usual today, my friend."

Elemmírë's voice shook Maglor out of reverie, so thoughtful he was he had nearly forgotten Elemmírë was there. He lifted his gaze from the harp strings to find his companion watching him curiously. "I'm sorry. My thoughts were...elsewhere."

"That much is obvious." Elemmírë made a few notes on a sheet of paper before returning his attention to Maglor. "Tell me then, what's troubling you?"

Maglor took a deep breath as if preparing for a plunge into deep waters. He laid his harp gently upon the table beside his chair. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a small, folded paper. He turned it over in his hands. "What troubles me is what comes next."

"Next?" Elemmírë's gaze shifted from Maglor's face to the letter in his hands. "Who is that from?"

"My mother."

Elemmírë's eyes grew wide. "Nerdanel? What does it say?"

"I have no idea." Maglor turned the letter over to reveal the wax seal still in place.

"When did it arrive?"

"Mahtan brought it when he gave me the harp."

Elemmírë gaped in utter disbelief. "But that was …you mean to say… you have been carrying that letter around unopened for years?"

Maglor traced the outline of his name on the envelope with a finger. "Yes."

"But…why?"

A frown formed on Maglor's face. It was a good question, and the answer was simple. "I've been too much of a coward to open it."

Elemmírë, in a state of utter disbelief, could not imagine how Maglor could have waited this long to read his mother's letter – coward or no. "What if she expected a reply?"

"She does. But Mahtan told me to wait until I was ready to open it – however long it took."

Elemmírë heard what Maglor had not spoken. "And you are ready now?"

Maglor shrugged. "Maybe. I think so. I don't know." He turned the letter over again in his hands, fingering the seal. Once he opened this letter there was no going back.

Elemmírë sensed his friend's unease, but was unsure what he could do to comfort him. So he offered the only thing he could think of – privacy. "Do you wish me to leave?"

Maglor smiled, grateful for his friend's consideration, but he couldn't face this letter alone. "No. Stay. Please." Maglor took a deep breath once more. He shut his eyes briefly and slid his finger beneath the wax seal, breaking it. He unfolded the paper and stared unblinking at the message it contained.

Elemmírë grew worried when Maglor continued to stare silently at the letter. He rested his own harp beside his chair and went to Maglor's side. He reached out for the letter. Maglor permitted Elemmírë to take it from his hand.

The message was written in a flowing, elegant script – eight little words upon the parchment.

_My beloved son.  
Come home to me. _

_Nerdanel_

* * *

Mahtan's estate lay to the southwest of Tirion, halfway between the city and the Mansions of Aulë. It was a twelve day journey by horse if ellon and animal kept a steady pace, but Maglor's journey took far longer. Each time his resolve weakened, he would slow or sometimes stop altogether. He knew every cave and fall along the way and visited each one a day or two before moving on. The landscape was unchanged by the passage of time, a reminder of the power the

Valar wielded over Valinor, who cared not to have their perfect homeland change, save for the ebb and flow of the seasons and the patterns of wildflowers laid out each spring.

Elemmírë rode beside him, at times in silence and at others bursting with song. He was once again attuned enough to Maglor's moods to sense when one or the other state would be appreciated. He never spoke to Maglor of his mother's message, nor pressured him to ride faster when his speed slowed. He merely rode beside him, a constant companion on a journey the two had shared a thousand times together in their youth.

They first caught site of their destination on the afternoon of the twenty-eighth day of their journey. Maglor brought his horse to halt at the turn in the road leading to his grandfather's home. He could see it, sheltered beneath Oromë's trees, beside a small river which disappeared into the Vala's wood. He sat upon his horse, drawing up the courage to press on. No one was expecting him. He had not sent word ahead for fear he would falter along the way and leave his mother waiting in vain.

Elemmírë's horse lowered its head to munch on a mound of grass. He allowed the animal to graze until Maglor made his decision to press on as he knew he inevitably would.

After what might have been an hour's silent deliberation Maglor finally turned to Elemmírë with an apologetic smile. The Vanya was a true friend to put up with him these many years. Even more so to accompany him on this overlong journey home. Maglor knew with absolute certainty that he would not have made it so far without Elemmírë by his side, though the ellon had done nothing more than ride with him and sing a few songs.

"Thank you."

Elemmírë gestured towards Mahtan's home, a smile curling the corners of his lips. "Shall we find out what's for supper?"

Maglor laughed despite himself. They had run out of all but lembas and water nine days past. "Anything will be better than way bread."

"I couldn't agree more."

Maglor stroked his horse's mane and whispered the forward command. The horse obliged. Elemmírë and his mount followed behind. They arrived at the stables within the hour, the final leg of their journey taking no time at all. A dark haired ellon, tall with broad shoulders and a stern expression came out to greet them. His eyes grew wide when he saw who it was coming to call.

Maglor dismounted in one fluid motion and handed his reins to the stunned ellon. "It is good to see you well, Morcion. You remember Elemmírë, do you not?" He gestured towards Elemmírë as his companion's feet hit the ground.

Morcion's gaze moved from Maglor to Elemmírë and back again. By then he had regained a sliver of composure as well as the ability to speak. "Prince Maglor, forgive me. I was not informed of your visit and so was not expecting you."

Maglor waved away the ellon's apology. "No one is expecting me, Morcion, yet here I am. Is my grandfather at his forge?"

"He was when last I saw him."

"And my mother?"

Morcion shook his head. "I have not seen her today. You had best ask your grandfather."

"I shall. Please see to our horses. They could use a good meal."

"Of course." Morcion took the reins from Elemmírë and bowed to both ellon before leading their horses to the stable.

Maglor followed Morcion with his eyes until the ellon and horses disappeared. "That wasn't awkward."

Elemmírë chuckled. "It wasn't too bad."

Maglor was surprised to find he agreed. Without a word he headed off in the direction of Mahtan's smithy. It stood on the south side of the compound beside the river. It was a short walk and they met no one else along the way. Maglor was grateful for it but his luck would not last long. Upon entering the forge they found Mahtan and his latest apprentices hard at work. An ellon with green eyes and sandy hair confined in a leather cap was the first to spot the visitors. The smith was unfamiliar to Maglor, but the reverse could not be said him. Upon recognizing who it was standing in the doorway, the iron the smith had been hammering slipped from his fingers. It clanged loudly upon hitting the floor, drawing the others' attention.

Mahtan's gaze moved from his work to his student and from his student to the door. "Maglor. Elemmírë." Surprise was evident in Mahtan's tone, and instead of greeting his grandson more courteously, his attention returned immediately to the student who dropped his work. Mahtan moved to the ellon's side and touched him lightly, cautiously, on the shoulder. The contact startled his apprentice and he jerked away. His gaze flew from Maglor to Mahtan then back and forth again. Mahtan reached out once more and this time the ellon accepted the master's hand on his shoulder. "Lessons are over for the day, Castien, for everyone. I will see you all on the morrow."

Three ellyn removed their aprons and gloves and fled the smithy with haste. They nodded to Elemmírë as they departed but did not acknowledge Maglor at all. Mahtan's expression morphed into one of concern as soon as the door closed behind them and for the first time Maglor regretted not warning his grandfather of his coming.

"I apologize. I should have written."

"You should have, but it would not have made this moment any easier."

"Your apprentice. Will he be alright? Is there anything…" Maglor did not bother to finish the question. He knew the answer. There was nothing he could do to fix his mistake or lessen the shock of meeting a monster in the flesh.

Mahtan removed his gloves and apron. "Castien was a child when you attacked Alqualondë. His brothers and father were slain."

Maglor choked on his grandfather's words, and Elemmírë, seeing so, spoke for him. "Have they been reborn?"

"Yes," said Mahtan, "they have, but he waited long years to see them again and bore witness to their deaths."

Maglor's thoughts raced and bile rose to the back of his throat. This was not what he needed to hear in preparation for seeing his mother. He swallowed his restless thoughts and the bile back down. Now was not the time to think on Alqualondë. The Teleri could wait. They had to wait. He was not here for them, for those crimes. He was here for his mother.

Mahtan sensed in Maglor's grave expression that a change of subject would be best. He knew why his grandson was here and it was not to discuss his apprentice. "Well then, you finally opened her letter?"

Maglor pulled the bit of parchment out from his pocket, clutching it tightly. "Is she here?"

Mahtan nodded. "She is painting by the river falls. You remember the way."

It was not a question but Maglor nodded anyway.

"Go find her, then. I will entertain Elemmírë in your absence."

Maglor had no doubt about that. They would probably discuss Maglor's over-long journey. It did not matter. His concern lay not behind, but ahead of him.

Mahtan, fully aware of his grandson's hesitation, laid a hand upon his shoulder and turned him toward the door. "You have come this far, child. Only a few steps more and the agony of 'what will be' will have ended." He pushed his grandson forward, out the door, and after a few steps on his own Mahtan called out behind him. "But don't expect her to call you Maglor."

* * *

Maglor followed the well traveled path through the gardens before veering off into the wood. The falls were her special place. They formed a pool in which one could swim. His mother first brought him there when he was a child. Maglor, and only Maglor knew the spot. Neither his father nor brothers had ever been invited, but Maglor accompanied his mother many times and played his harp for her whilst his father and brothers worked the forge with Mahtan.

As he drew nearer the spot he could hear the water, it's steady, meditative roar. He emerged from the wood on the very spot locked in his memory. The sun shone down between the trees and at the pool's edge birds and butterflies paused to drink their fill. There was no hate in this place, no history of wars or blood or violence – only beauty and peace. It was unfathomable that he could have traded all this – and his mother's love – in the slim hope of winning his father's.

Nerdanel was seated on a stool before a canvass perched on an easel she'd decorated herself. It was as much a work of art as the painting – a panorama of the falls and trees. How many times in how many ways his mother had painted this place Maglor could not begin to guess. He had asked her once, why she kept coming back to paint here. She'd told him that no moment in time was ever the same and there was something new to capture every time she brought her paints. He had thought her silly, then, but he was wiser now.

He watched her work for a while in silence for he had come upon her with the silent feet of a warrior from Middle-earth. She had not heard him. He was certain, in fact, that he could reach her side without making her aware of him. He could slip away, too, unseen if he wished without her glimpsing him. A part of him thought it might be better that way, but the child in him longed for his mother's embrace.

He watched her mix the paints and apply them with a talent that spoke of long practice. She was not a natural painter. Sculpture was more properly her art, but she had often impressed upon her children that it was a benefit to be well-rounded. She painted for pleasure, not for praise, though she had garnered much for her efforts. It was soothing to watch her at her art. Maglor knew the joy she felt in these moments of creation. He did not wish his presence to take that joy away.

He struggled with how to approach her, what to do or say to reveal his presence, but a moment later his struggle ceased to matter. Nerdanel turned to wash a brush in the basin set to her left. Turning, she caught sight of Maglor standing amidst the trees. She froze, the brush held inches from the basin's rim. Her eyes grew wide and she blinked once, twice. A hand rose and with her forearm she brushed the loose tendrils of her thick red hair back from her eyes. She spoke only one word, breathless.

"Makalaurë."

Maglor met his mother's gaze for the first time in seven thousand years and found it too much to bear. He dropped his gaze to the forest floor where a butterfly drank from a small flowering herb. He watched the lovely creature for who knows how long, wishing that he, too, could grow wings and fly away. No sooner had the thought flight formed in his mind then he felt his mother's hand on his arm. He did have the strength to turn his gaze and look her in the eye but he needed none.

She stepped into his line of vision, blocking the ground and the butterfly with her upturned face. Maglor had not remembered being so much taller than his mother. Nerdanel had always been a great, imposing elleth in his mind. Reality was she stood a head shorter. There were tears cascading down her cheeks and a smile on her lips and in her eyes. Paint splattered hands reached upward but paused an inch from his face. She laughed at her hands and began to pull them away but before she could Maglor took them in his. They were small and coarse from the splotches of paint clinging to her skin and so wonderfully familiar he sobbed. She drew her hands from his and wrapped her thin, graceful arms around his chest. She laid her head against him and wept seven thousand years worth of tears.

Maglor's tears fell too, slowly at first, so shocked he was at the amount of love his mother still held for him. He cried harder once the shame and guilt set in. Looking back, he could not now fathom abandoning her in favor of Fëanor. He held her for a long time and she, him, until the tears subsided and their breathing was again calm and steady.

Nerdanel drew back first but she took Maglor's hand in hers as she did so and drew him to the large mallorn tree where once they had sat and talked of unimportant things. She seated herself and pulled him down beside her. She wrapped her arm around his and rested her head against his shoulder as they both leaned back against the tree.

On the long journey from Tirion Maglor had spent much time considering what he would say to his mother when he saw her again. He wrote speeches, rehearsed them in his head. Like his father, Maglor had always been accorded eloquent. But now words abandoned him – the explanations, the apologies – they were gone.

Nerdanel stroked his arm, a silent gesture of comfort, but remained silent. Her patience was legendary, greater even than Maglor's. That was Nerdanel – kind, patient, understanding. The irrational, childish part of Maglor's mind had so feared she would turn him away when he came to her, but the rational side knew better. That side had feared this reunion even more, feared to face her, to see the disappointment in her eyes, but her eyes had held only love.

"Do you remember the first time I performed my harp before an audience? It was a small crowd, just a few students, our teacher, parents. I was so afraid I would disappoint you. My hands were shaking."

"I remember."

"You told me I could never disappoint you." Maglor closed his eyes, struggling to keep his tears from falling once more. "I never meant to prove you wrong."

Nerdanel stroked the back of Maglor's hand. It was all the comfort she could give him. There was nothing she could do or say to ease his pain.

"I wanted him to love me," he continued, "like he loved Maedhros and Curufin. And for a time, I thought he did. I should not have chosen the promise of his love over the surety of yours. It means nothing, I know, but I'm sorry."

Maglor fell silent again. He watched his mother nervously to gauge her response. The corners of her mouth turned down and she sighed. For the first time Maglor could see age in his mother's immortal face, age – and weariness.

"Your father will never be released from Mandos – nor any of your brothers."

It was not the direction Maglor expected their conversation to take, had he the courage to guess where it might lead. His father and brothers. Maglor had often pondered their rebirths, but had not considered the possibility they would be held formless forever. "Have the Valar told you this?"

Nerdanel shook her head, drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "No one has told me anything, but I know. Their crimes are too great."

"No greater than mine."

She sighed again. "Maybe so. But you are alive and they are houseless spirits. Fëanor will never repent his rebellion and the others…even if they do... it may not be enough."

_And it's all my fault. _The weight of that burden bore down on Maglor more heavily now than ever before. "There were so many times… so many times I could have stopped them. If I had only tried harder." His father might have been beyond reach, perhaps he could have reached his brothers – Maedhros and the Ambarussa at least.

Nerdanel understood well the thoughts tormenting her son. She struggled long with her own guilt, believing she could have stopped Fëanor from rousing their people and fleeing Valinor if only _she_ had tried harder. Yes, Nerdanel understood her son's thoughts quite well. "I do not pretend to know the will of the Valar or Ilúvatar's plan for us all, but the Music was written long ago and each of us has our part to play out. There might have been moments when you could have changed a note, a chord or two, but the music was too strong. It swept us all away. And I have come to think, perhaps, that this was the part you were meant to play."

Maglor did not quite understand his mother's meaning. "Of what part do you speak?"

Nerdanel considered her son for a moment. She did not know if he was ready to hear her thoughts. It had taken him so long to come to her, she did not wish to drive him away now. But the questioning in his eyes made the decision for her, he was hungry to find his purpose, if he had one at all. "You, alone, among you brothers, were made strong enough to bear the people's anger with humility. You suffer for your father's sins, for your brothers' – as well as your own – so that they, too, may one day be forgiven."

"We do not deserve forgiveness."

"Maybe not. But others need it. The natural state of the Eldar is to be at peace. There are elves alive today who will never know peace again until they have allowed themselves to forgive you. So they can move on."

Nerdanel's words reminded Maglor once more of the Judgment handed down to him by the Valar. "That is what Namo said to me on Taniquetil."

"Namo is wise."

"So is my mother."

Nerdanel smiled at him, her eyes full of love and in them Maglor saw hope that the world might one day be put right – or as right as it could ever be made again. One problem remained. It was the same problem he faced when he first left Manwë's halls. "I do not know how to begin."

"You have begun already," Nerdanel said. "You came here, unsure if I would forgive you or turn you away. You told me you were sorry."

Maglor listened, but remained doubtful of his mother's assertion. "I'm sorry is such a pitiful phrase. It changes nothing."

"For some, it may not, for others, it could change everything. Regardless, they need to hear it. It matters not if they are ready to forgive you. Some have forgiven you already, for others it might take an age, but they need to know you repent, that you feel remorse, guilt, shame for what you have done. They need to hear it from your lips."

"I know," said Maglor – and he did. "But what shall I say to them?"

"The answer is inside you, my son, and one day, when you are ready, you will find the words."

Maglor wasn't so sure, but his mother's faith in him was a comfort to his soul. _You will find the words._ Long ago she had assured him of this before he wrote his first ballad. She had been right then, and as they sat together hand in hand, a small part of him dared to hope she would be right again.

* * *

**_Author's Note:_**_ Thanks for your patience and to the constant beggars who finally got me to finish this one. It's only the 13__th__ or 14__th__ version of this chapter and I don't like it much, but now I can move on. _


	27. Permission

**Chapter 27 – Permission**

_Within this tome is chronicled a history some may dispute. They must, in fact, for herein is recorded the tale of one ellon's life and experience, and each of us, having our own unique perspective, may recall the same events differently. Being so agreed, I beg your permission to present this history through the eyes of one who was present during pivotal events of the First Age and who, without question, saw them differently._

* * *

**Valinor  
Fourth Age **

A breeze swept in from the east across the Bay of Eldamar. It brought with it the smell of the sea and dark memories. For Eruanna the memories lived not only in her mind or on the wind but also upon the pages resting on her lap. She flipped through them one at a time as she did every night for the last month. They were all in order, the drawings and the tales that went with them. The story they contained spanned millenia. There were holes, great gaps in space and time and understanding, but it was everything Eruanna knew. All she had seen or been told was held in the pages. She closed the cover of the leather folder before the breeze took them pondering what she would do with them next. She sat in the tower each night pondering that same question, but the stars and the wind never answered.

Eruanna tried to enjoy the breeze and ignore the dark thoughts circling her mind. She sat alone under the stars for several hours before she was disturbed by another visitor. He made no sound on the stair. It was only when he appeared in the doorway that her attention was drawn to him, an ellon she had never seen before. He was as tall as Elrond and had long flowing hair so pale it glistened under the starlight. His eyes were warm and bright and aged, his face flawless and serene. Eruanna had seen age and power and beauty before. She had seen the light of the Valar in elven eyes, but there was something alien about this one, a strange quality hinting at something beneath the surface. He smiled at her and nodded in such a way as to suggest he knew her well, though she could not recall if they had ever met. She should have greeted him with words, but instead she merely returned the nod and followed his movements as he stepped out onto the tower and looked west. He clasped the edge of the tower wall and breathed deep the night air before speaking.

"This is a good spot. I can see all the way to the western shore from here."

It was a curious thing to say, or so Eruanna thought. The distance to the western shore was immense. Not even Glorfindel could see so far. And what's more, there were few in Tirion who would admit to looking west. To the west lay the Halls of Mandos and the souls of the dead. It was a place of which even Eruanna despaired.

"You look west?"

The stranger nodded. "I make it a habit to look in all directions, and in so doing, I see many things."

He turned and looked at her then, or more rightly, he looked right through her. His gaze chilled her to the bone and she felt all at once that her secret thoughts and wishes were known to him. His gaze fell from her face to the leather folder in her hands. "You are nearly finished with your book."

It was not a question and it did not surprise Eruanna in the least that he knew what the folder contained. "Nearly."

"And what do you plan to do with it?"

Eruanna shrugged and shook her head in answer to the very question that plagued her each day. "I don't know. Place it on a shelf in my room somewhere, I suppose. There is nothing else for it."

The stranger seated himself gracefully on the bench across from her. His gaze held hers captive. She could not look away.

"I thought books were meant to be read."

Eruanna thought so too, but she shook her head. "No one wishes to read these tales."

"But they must. Is that not what you believe?"

She believed precisely that, but she also believed something else. "I do, but you see, they are not my stories to tell."

"No. They are not." Silence followed the stranger's words and he closed his eyes. Eruanna wondered what he was pondering as his expression grew thoughtful. A frown pulled at the corners of his lips before he spoke again. "I always loved the sound of his voice. I have missed it greatly these many ages."

Eruanna heard Maglor sing only once before, and she, too, was haunted by the memory. It was strangely comforting to know that this stranger remembered something good of Maglor. It was reason to hope that others would as well. "He claims his gifts of music and poetry were destroyed by time."

The stranger shook his head. "He lies – to you – and to himself. The song is inside him. All that you have written there and more. _Noldolantë._"

He spoke the last in a whisper too soft for Eruanna to hear. "Pardon?"

"Noldolantë," he repeated. "It is a song."

"I have never heard it."

A smile spread across the stranger's face, lighting his eyes. "Nor have I. It is buried deep within him. He began it long ago – and adds to it still. But just as books are meant to be read, so songs are meant to be heard."

"Will he ever complete it?"

The ellon nodded. "I believe he will – and soon."

"And when it is done?"

"Then he must share it and start anew. Where one song ends another begins. Such is the way of the world."

Eruanna wanted nothing more than to agree with him, but she was not so sure the world was ready to listen to Maglor or permit him move on. "Will he ever be forgiven?"

"He must forgive himself first. For those who go to the Halls that is always the hardest part. For those who never pass through its doors it is harder still."

Eruanna knew this but still she hoped to help Maglor down this path. "What could possibly convince him he deserves forgiveness?"

He gestured towards the pages she held. "Give him the book."

That was not the advice Eruanna expected and she was not sure it wise. "What if it angers him?"

"What if it brings him peace?"

Eruanna shook her head and clutched the pages tighter. She could not imagine how her intrusion into Maglor's past could bring him peace. "How can reading my poor summary of his life do that?"

The ellon smiled knowingly at her confusion and pointed again to the pages in her hands. "Do you think he has ever before shared those secrets with another? The importance of that book is not that you recorded his tales, but that you listened."

Eruanna considered the stranger's words and found truth in them. She offered him a smile, grateful for his help. "I will give him the book."

He returned her smile with a nod. "A wise decision." He rose from his seat in one graceful motion. The wind caught his hair and his robes floated behind him as he moved to the stairway door. Their conversation was over.

Eruanna hesitated only a moment before her courage and curiosity caught up with her. She had come to the tower struggling with questions and had hoped the Valar would send her a sign. Instead, they sent her a messenger and when his eyes met Eruanna's again they sparkled with an ancient light. They felt familiar, and for a moment she could almost see the gray beard and hear a deep, rumbling laughter as he shared a meal with Elrond.

Manwë sent him, she was sure of it. "I thought the Valar did not trouble themselves with simple matters."

He smiled at her, that same enigmatic smile she remembered so well. "They never do."

* * *

On the first morning after Maglor's return Eruanna caught him up on the palace news and work reports. She did not ask him about his mother, though she knew, as all of Tirion knew, where his travels had taken him. He would tell her if he wished, in his own time, and she would listen if he wished.

They quickly fell back into their long adopted routine, working silently for hours, the only noise, the scratching of their pens upon parchment. Every evening Eruanna would straighten up the office and return the ledgers to the shelf. Maglor would organize their work for the following day, jotting down a list of assignments for Eruanna to complete. Not that she needed the reminders, she had done it all while he was away and kept herself aware of the most pressing matters.

Two weeks later the pattern of their lives was back to normal but each day, as it came to close, Eruanna struggled with whether to show Maglor her book. She brought it with her each day, but if Maglor noticed its presence, he made no mention of it. She suspected he did not do so out of respect, but out of distraction. He was quiet, thoughtful since his return. There was something troubling him and Eruanna did not wish to cast the stone that would unleash his dark mood.

Maglor dismissed her for the evening and Eruanna decided with more relief than reluctance to wait one more day. She was almost to the door when it opened on its own to reveal Elemmírë complete with a harp slung across his back.

A rush of joy washed over Eruanna for she had not seen him since his return. "Elemmírë! It is so good to see you."

Elemmírë's eyes brightened at the sight of Eruanna and he took her up in a sweeping embrace. "And you, as well." He set her back on her feet and clucked in Maglor's direction. "Keeping her late, are you? Have you forgotten our date for this evening? Midsummer is almost here and I need a second opinion."

"You mean a first opinion," said Maglor.

"Not at all. My opinion comes first, I merely need you to reassure me that my song will be champion this year."

Eruanna laughed at Elemmírë's playfulness but Maglor did not bother to fake a smile.

Elemmírë did not notice, instead his attention was focused on Eruanna's leather tome. "Are those your drawings you've told me about? May I look?"

Eruanna, thrown, answered with an utter lack of grace. "I...well...yes... but they're... not...I mean to say..."

Eruanna's eyes darted back and forth from Maglor to Elemmírë just in time for the bard to realize he'd said something wrong and for Maglor to finally notice the leather bound tome resting upon his scribe's desk. He noted it was much thicker than he recalled from that night on the tower, but then he knew she was fond of drawing.

"What is the problem? You have shown your drawings to me before? Why would you not want Elemmírë to see them?"

Eruanna, cornered, knew there was little chance of escape and so admitted a hesitant defeat. She felt better about it, with Elemmírë at her side. She was certain he would cover her should she need to effect an escape.

"They are not merely drawings. What I mean is, the book, it contains both drawings and stories."

Here Maglor's face fell and the dark mood dwelling beneath the surface of his thoughts could be seen more clearly in his eyes. "What stories?"

For a moment Eruanna was afraid to answer but she drew up the well of her courage and the added measure Elemmírë's presence offered and told Maglor what she knew he did not want to hear. "From the First Age and before, your stories."

"My stories?"

"I wrote them down, in your words, what you told me and others' tales as well."

Instead of the anger Eruanna had been expecting, those words were spoken in disbelief. He did not seem to understand her. Hesitantly, she lifted the leather binder and handed it to him. He took it from her hands and rested on his desk before him, a frown on his face, his brow creased. He unwound the string that held the pages closed and slowly began turning the pages.

Eruanna was certain that at any moment he might lift the pages and cast them into the hearth, but he surprised her as he kept on turning them. She was certain he did not read every word but his eyes would be drawn to a phrase or an image and he would pause a moment to study it more closely. Eruanna held her breath the entire time. At some point a hand came to rest on her shoulder and when she looked up Elemmírë squeezed her shoulder in silent support.

Maglor was only half-way through the tome when he spoke again, his voice thick with conflicting emotions. "Who have you shown this to?"

"No one. It is not my story to share."

"Why? Why would you write a history that none may read?"

Eruanna had asked herself the same question many times. It had taken her years to realize the answer. "I hoped, perhaps, that you could place it upon a shelf, and move on to a happier story."

"It is not that simple."

"I never thought it was."

Silence hung in the air but it was soon broken by Elemmírë. "May I see it?"

Maglor read clearly in his friend's eyes that a 'no' would not be met with argument. He closed the book and handed it over to Elemmírë who leafed through its pages pausing here and there as Maglor had before him.

Maglor took the opportunity to pour his companions glasses of wine and handed them to Elemmírë and Eruanna.

"There are blank pages at the end." Elemmírë said to Eruanna.

"Yes, well, I don't know yet how the story ends."

"Then I suppose Maglor must tell it."

"I don't have the words."

"You do," said Eruanna. "The song is inside you."

"Well if that is the case," said Elemmírë, "I happen to have a harp with me and I know somewhere in that mausoleum of a bedchamber up there you have one, too."

Maglor shook his head. "I cannot. It is not my story to tell. It concerns so many others."

"Then ask their permission."

Maglor graced Eruanna with an look of bewilderment such as one might expect had she suggested he throw himself from the window and take flight. The idea was absurd and terrifying all the same. But in the back of his mind, Maglor heard his mother's words to him repeated again and again, _'They need to know you repent'_. He could only hope to find the right words.

"Where do I begin?" Maglor asked the question aloud but to no one in particular. The task was overwhelming, so much so that Maglor feared he might be paralyzed before his first step.

Elemmírë placed the book back on Maglor's desk and slid it toward him. He opened it to the first page. "How about, at the beginning?"


End file.
